s 


H3-M 


AN  ODE  TO   HARVARD 

AND   OTHER   POEMS 

By 
WITTER    BYNNER 


BOSTON 
SMALL,  MAYNARD   fcf   COMPANY 


Copyright,  1907 
By  Small,  Maynard  &  Company 

(Incorporated) 


Press  of 

Geo.  H.  Ellis  Co. 
Boston 


To  A.  B.  W. 
and  W.  L.  W. 


305223 


Acknowledgment  is  due  the  different  editors  for  their 
permission  to  republish:  from  The  Century  Magazine, 
Hey-Day,  and  a  fragment  of  the  Ode;  from  McClure's, 
' So  Kind  You  Are/  The  Chaplet,  and  The  Marionettes; 
from  The  Broadway,  The  Pool;  from  Everybody's,  'And 
O  the  Wind/  The  Robin,  and  The  Lantern;  from 
Harper's,  Clover;  from  The  Metropolitan,  'Over  the 
Hills';  from  The  Reader,  The  Hypocrite,  and  'The 
Loves  of  Every  Day';  from  The  American,  'Now,  O  My 
Mother';  and  from  Scribner's,  Grenstone  River. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

An  Ode  to  Harvard 1 

To  George  Meredith 59 

Hill  Songs 61 

The  Pool      67 

'So  Kind  You  Are' 68 

Key-Day 69 

The  Robin 71 

Grenstone  River 72 

Clover 73 

Mercury 74 

The  Hypocrite 75 

The  Loves  of  Every  Day 77 

The  Pretty  Ladies      79 

The  Chaplet 80 

The  Beggar 81 

The  Marionettes 82 

Marcello  Macello 83 

An  April  in  Madison  Square 84 

*  Now,  O  My  Mother' 87 

The  Interval 88 

The  Deserter       89 

Bacchanalian 93 

ix 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Two  Songs 95 

A  Ballad  of  Marriage 96 

The  Lantern 101 

A  Ballad  of  Life 103 

Maria  Spiridonova 105 

Gambetta  to  his  Mignonne 107 

Sin 108 

The  Witches 109 

The  Fruits  of  the  Earth Ill 

'AndO  the  Wind' 115 

Rovers  All 117 

4  Over  the  Hills'  .  119 


AN   ODE  TO  HARVARD 


AN   ODE  TO  HARVARD 

I  was  with  Thee,  Alma  Mater, 
From  that  formal  first  October 
To  that  fourth  and  final  June; 
Bed  by  twelve  o'clock  or  later, 
Out  again  at  least  by  noon ; 
Gay  at  times,  but  often  sober: 
O  that  dignified  October! — 

0  that  muslin  mischief  June! 

1  who  loved  Thee,  Alma  Mater, 
Had  to  leave  Thee  all  too  soon ! 


Though,  many  an  hour,  a  ring  of  castles  rises, 
And  none  in  Spain  are  cosey  like  to  these 
That    look   through    elms    and    move    through 

memories 

With  turns,  with  turrets  and  with  old  surprises, — 
Yet  are  they  vanished  on  the  instant  breeze. 


But    here    I    am    come    back,    back    to    the 

Yard, — with  no  such  flippant  tread 
As  when  I  lived  in  it,  but  like  another  Freshman, 
with  as  grave  a  mien, 
1 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

As  close  a  survey  of  its  hedge  of  bricks, 

As  though  I'd  never  seen 

Holworthy,      Hollis,     Massachusetts     and     the 

rest, 
And  Stoughton,  which  I  look  at  longest  and  like 

best: 

I  feel  a  sudden,  a  funereal  pain, 
A  sense  of  an  own  parent  come  to  view 
The  former  haunts  of  an  own  son  that's  dead.  .  .  . 

A  lump  was  in  my  throat,  until  I  said: 
'You  sentimental  fool, 
It's  where  you  went  to  school, 
That's  all!— 
You  can  come  back  at  any  time  and  find  a 

goody-made-up  bed 
If  not  in  Stoughton,  in  some  other  hall 
Where  now  as  proctors  linger  fellows  whom  you 

knew 
When    proctors    seemed    impressive    things    to 

them  and  you : — 
Or  visit  younger  friends,  some  one  perhaps  still 

new 
To    the    immemorial     methods    of    Memorial 

cooks !' — 
That  made  me  smile  again, — visions  of  chicken 

giblet-dressed, 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

And  as  constant  lamb  as  Mary's  till  petitions 

gave  us  rest 
And  sounds  of  service  like  a  heavy  rain. — * 

O  how  the  good  discomforts  all, 
The  little  miseries,  come  back  and  make  me  gay 

again ! 
The  melancholy  was  a  mood  that  fell  but  to 

make  greener  the  great  joy  that  stays. 
See  how  the  buildings  are  the  same  as  in  those 

other  days! — 

Still  the  gray  squirrels  play  their  jerky  tricks 
Near  Gray's; 

And  there  the  Library  peeps  through, 
Dear  Gothic  spinster  garrulous  with  books; 
How  well  she  keeps  her  looks! — 
And  here  lived  two  of  the  best  men  I  knew; 
And  there — but  O  no,  no,  I  try  in  vain! — 
No,  Harvard  College,  no! — it  isn't  you! 

Ah  well,  I've  got  my  bearings  now, 
And  as  a  ghost — as  in  a  gentle  classic  hell — 
I  take  my  way  amongst  the  shades 

*  I  meant  to  make  this  epigram, 

But  I  forgot, — 

That  Mary  had  a  little  lamb:— 
We  had  a  lot! 

3 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

With  a  remote  and  graduated  sense  of  peace, 
And  roam  the  nether-glades 
Under  the  elms  of  Stygian  bough — 
(That  isn't  right  but  near  enough  to  do !) 

There  goes  the  bell, 

Calling  its  monotone  in  Harvard  Hall, — 
And  out  they  come  from  many  a  door, 
Across,  or  by  the  long  diagonal  paths  from  end 

to  end 
Of  the  old  Yard. 

So  looked  they  all 
Of  yore, 

Before  decease! — 
That  walk,  that  swing,  and  there  that  careful 

crease 
Of  trouser-leg,  those  tennis  rackets,  and  those 

crazy  hats, — all,  all  the  old-time  traces.  .  .  . 

But  let  the  good  bell  cease ! 
Old  Jones  still  rings  a  knell  of  dreams,  just  as 

he  did  before: 

My  Harvard  College,  no ! — it  isn't  you ! 
It's  hard 

And  yet  it's  true, — 
When  all  things  else  are  right,  that  the  faces 

4 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

All  are  new! 

So  looked  they  not  of  yore, 

Before  decease ! 

This  is  no  gentle  classic  hell! — 

Be  still,  old  bell!— 

Yet  this  is  Harvard  College,  here  and  now! 


Tempus  fugit  like  a  streak, — 
But  it  must  be  and  so  be  it! 
Why,  it  hardly  seems  a  week 
Since  the  time,  so  to  speak, 
When  I  belonged  here,   was   a  loafer,   had   a 

hold.— 

But  the  times  that  now  are  new 
In  a  twinkling  shall  be  old, — 
Pretty  soon  these  fellows  too 
Will  come  back  to  see  their  college  and  shan't 
see  it. 


So   I'll   think  but  kindly  of  them,  as  they'll 

doubtless  think  of  me, 

And   I'll   see   who's   living   where   I  lived,   I'll 
knock  at  Stoughton  3. 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

And  there's  the  old   door  open — Lord,  how  we 

used  to  bang  it! 
And  there's  the  fireplace  again,  and  the  shutters 

— but  I  say, 
It  looks  so  different  papered  green ! — I  liked  it 

better  gray! 
And  then  he  tells  me  it  was  brown  before  his 

day. 
He  has  a  fine  Da  Vinci  there,  but  that's  not 

where  I'd  hang  it ! 
Is  he  a  grind  ? — Perhaps  so.     But  he's  pretty 

nice  today, — 
With  his  Morris  chair,  and  a  cigarette,  and  a 

hearty  hand  to  stay  .  .  . 
So  there's  the  door  inside  again — but  the  horns 

are  gone  above  it. 
3    Stoughton ! — it's  the  same  old  room !     Lord, 

how  I  used  to  love  it ! 
But  it  looks  so  clean  and  empty  now  with  that 

ugly  desk  of  oak 
And  so  orderly  to  work  in!    I'll  close  my  eyes 

a  minute, 
And  I'll   fill   it  full  of  truck  again — for  it  had 

the  whole  world  in  it! 

I  lived  here  all  four  years,  you  know,  and  every 
thing  my  way. 

6 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

How   thick    it    was    with    sacred    dust,    with 

friendliness,  and  smoke, 
With  Meredith  and  Poe  and  other  powers, 
With  signs  of  Mrs.  Row,  and  with  the  hours 
Of  midnight  talk,  heady  as  wine ! 
'A  fountain  and  a  shrine' 
Was  Stoughton  3, 

'All  wreathed  with  fairy  fruits  and  flowers,' 
And  all  belonged  to  me ! —  .  .  . 

Hang  it! 

He  must  have  thought  me  dull! — I  hardly 
spoke. 

I  had  all  ready  for  him,  to  have  made  his  cour 
tesy  worth  while, 

A  recent  New  York  joke, — 

But  I  thought,  the  more  I  sat  there,  that  I'd 
better  not  begin  it — 

My  voice  was  getting  queer;  and  I  could  only 
say, 

*  Good-bye'    and    *  thanks,'    and   smile — 

And  there's  the  old  door  shut  again. — Lord, 
how  we  used  to  bang  it! 

There  were  other  rooms  I  liked  almost  as  well, 
But  I'll  go  no  more  a- venturing  inside; 

7 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

I'll  rather  keep  them  in  my  mind 

As  then  they  were, — 

Those  self-same  dens  of  fellowship  and  hearty 

habitation, 

Those  windows  shining  in  the  night 
With  special  beckonings  of  light, 
Those  fires  comforting  our  feet 
While   we'd   discuss   the   universe,    a   waitress, 

and  the  nation, 
And   set    aside   ideas   of   God   with   cosey,  sad 

negation ; 

I'll  rather  see  what  still  is  here 
Than  what  must  change  from  year  to  year. 


O  I  remember  now! — whom  should  I  meet 

But  the  former  Dean, 

This  morning  near  the  Square, 

Who  used  to  hold  the  pedals  for  our  unac 
customed  feet, 

And  start  the  wheel  of  living  with  his  lubricating 
air! 

It  was  good  to  see  him  bow  again  his  loose  and 
kindly  bow, 

And  smile  again  his  Mono,  Lisa  smile. — 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

But  there  seems  to  be  another  look,  till  now 

I  hadn't  seen, 

An  elusive  look  of  sadness,  as  he  finds  the  world 
worth  while. 


I'd  like  to  meet  the  others, — 

That  dear  old  man  and  slow 

Who  made  good  English  young  and  quick,  and 
taught  me  half  I  know: 

(Love  for  Wordsworth  he  imparted 

Until  I,  who'd  scoffed  at  first 

At  the  simple-minded  worst, 

Brought  devotion  to  the  best  and  simple- 
hearted)  ; 

Or  the  Scot  who  knew  his  Scriptures  A  to  Z 

And  the  secret  thoughts  of  Bacon  and  the  art 
of  making  tea, 

And  who  once,  when  I  had  studied  through  the 
night  to  take  his  test, 

Left  his  class-room  to  arouse  me  from  a  deep 
untimely  rest; 

Or  the  twirler  of  his  watch-chain,  who,  with 
furrows  in  his  brow, 

Likened  failings  in  a  work  of  mine,  that  emu 
lated  Dante, 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

To   a    discommoding    peak    upon    the    rear   of 

the  Bacchante! — 
Or  professors  whom  I  barely  even  saw  when  I 

was  here, 
Yet  whom  none  the  less  I  claim  in  my  estate, 

as  I  revere 
Unseen  regions  of  my  country  that  are  none  the 

less  my  pride; 

Or  the  far-collected  brothers 
Whom  Philosophy  allied, — 
One  whose  mind  digested  all  things,  while  his 

stomach  never  tried, 
Or  the  Spanish  poet-philosopher  whose  eye  would 

so  beguile 
That  you'd  see  no  more  his  meaning,  but  the 

flaring  altar-oil 

That  was  burning  as  for  worshippers  inside; 
And  the  President  who  knew  his  mind  with  sure 

but  courtly  vim, 
And  who'd  very  gladly  greet  you,  if  you  thought 

of  greeting  him, — 
Or  that  brilliant,  melancholy  man 
Who,  in  the  last  course  he  began, 
Spoke  through  the  window  from  his  book, 
Or  into  space, — 
But  never  at  his  hearers  would  he  look, 

10 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

Until  one  day  he  turned  in  sadness  to  us  face  to 

face 

It  seemed  another  man,  another  place, 
And  said  that  he  was  sick,  must  go  away,  the 

course  must  end ! — 
I  know  not  where  is  he, 
He  scarcely  thought  of  me, — 
And  yet  he  strangely  seems  to  be 
A  friend. 


While  I  was  here,  when  still  I  might  have  met 
And  known  a  white-haired  man  whom  all  men 

loved, 
Fool  that  I  was,  I  never  even  tried. 

But  now  on  coming  back,  when  he  has  died, 
I  find  his  welcome  waiting  till  my  spirit  should  be 

moved 

To  look  for  it, — I  learn  at  last 
That  signal,  from  the  past, 
Of  his  bluff-saluting  cane, 
That  welcome  which  the  fellows  re-create 
To  share  with  me  who  look  for  it  so  late. 
It  is  as  though  I  too  had  stood  beside,  and  closed 

behind 
With  all  those  others,  as  he  passed 

11 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

In  silence  through  the  Yard,  to  take  his  leave. 

They  tell  me  that  the  Chapel  saw  that  day, 

Faces  of  hardest  clay 

Illumined  with  a  manliness 

Of  tears,   because  the  guide  had  reached  his 

journeys'  end. 

But  a  love  that  any  one  man  could  achieve 
Among  so  many  mates  of  human  kind, 
By  a  just  knowledge  that  the  ancient  sun 
Still  shines  on  animal  and  saint  in  one, 
By  deep  democracy  of  gentleness 
To  all  his  boys  both  young  and  old — 
This  was  not  death,  but  life  an  hundred-fold, 
A  life  that  widening  on  from  unknown  friend  to 

friend 

In  deeper  influence  than  memory, 
Establishes  itself  immortally. 


Lo,  I  behold  another  of  the  pedagogic  faces, — 
(O,  but  it's  good  to  see  them  and  to  know  that 

they  are  here! — ) 
I  see  the  little  man  from  Maine 
Go  marching  to  his  room  again ! — 
Back  from  the  letter-box  he  takes  his  independent 

paces, 

12 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

Like  a  wily  spinster  spider 

Who  prefers  her  brittle  legs,  with  the  web  of 
wit  inside  her 

And  the  vision  in  her  eyes 

Of    her   cunning   little    parlour   full    of    panic- 
stricken  flies. 

It  used  to  be  in  Stoughton,  but  he  weaves 
in  Hollis  now; 

And  the  sacred  number  seven 

Is  profanely  now  fifteen:    but  he  calls  upstairs 
a  gain, 

For  there's  no  one  now  above  him  but  inhabi 
tants  of  heaven 

And  the  angels  wear  goloshes  when  they  riot  in 

the  rain. 

And  how  this   takes   me  through   the   years 
to  Stoughton  3  again! — 

He  was  proctor  there,  my  proctor; 

And  he  often  felt  the  pain 

Of  the  pleasure  that   it  gave  him  when  he'd 
cleverly  complain, 

That   it  wasn't  quite  as  quiet  as   the  'waters 
stilled  at  even ' ! 

He  sent  his  own   Chartreuse   one    night,  if  we 
would  drink  less  loudly; 

And  we  reverenced  him  proudly, 

13 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

Though  we'd  only  just  begun: — 
But  the  Lord  is  now  my  Proctor, 
And  it  isn't  half  the  fun. 

(I  can  hear  my  Proctor  bidding  me  a  little  to 

forbear, 
A  moment  from  the  mirth  of  moody  memory  to 

spare. 

So  I'll  slip  beneath  His  door, 
When  it's  darker  in  His  hall, 
An  apology  and  prayer.) 


See  how  the  elms  hold  conference  in  air; 
I  fancy  by  a  breath  from  tree  to  tree 
One  of  them  asks  his  fellows,  noting  me, — 
'  Is  he  a  stranger  that  is  sitting  there  ? ' 
And  then  the  nearest  one  to  Stoughton  3 
Says, — 'Not  at  all,  look  closer,  don't  you  see 
His  crazy  hair?' — 
Even  in  fancy  it  is  comforting 
To  be  remembered;     therefore  my  gratitude  I 

bring 
To  you,  O  Harvard  Elms,  that  stand  and  drink 

together 
In  a  reverend  elation ! 

14 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

How  many  times  we'd  watch  the  weather 
Sparkle  in  your  branches,  that  were  lifting  the 

libation, 
Whether   your    cups    with    snow    were    frozen 

deep, 

While  we  went  slanting,  muffled,  in  the  chill, 
Or  whether  raindrops  were  their  winking  fill, 
Or  else  in  time  of  laughter  after  rain, 
When  we  could  sit  upon  the  steps  again ! 

Here  the  burning  noon  would  venture  with  a 
step  of  re  very; 

And  the  evening  stole  amongst  you  with  a 
dreamy  meditation, 

Or  we'd  watch  the  night  his  vigil  keep 

Or  the  silent  blue-eyed  morrow  wander,  walk 
ing  in  her  sleep, 

Under  your  boughs  amongst  the  stolid  halls. 

And  the  singing  nidulation 
Of  the  birdies  in  the  Spring, 
With  the  thought  how  close  an  egg  can  hide 

a  feather! — 
And  the  sun  that  falls 
On  everything 
And  breaks  the  frosty  tether, 

15 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

When  the  Glee  Club  and  the  others  in  melodic 

conclamation 
Get  together, — 

When  there's  general  jubilation 
And  a  mating  inclination 
And    a  fellow  thinks    of    who    the    One    shall 

be!— 

That's  when  I  went  to  Waverley, 
With  inward  divination, 
And  made  her  late  to  dinner  with  my  plea. 

And  now  I'm  thanking  heaven 
That  it  stopped  just  where  it  did, 
When  she  wept  at  half  past  seven 
And  I  went  away  and  hid ! 
And  the  thought  of  what  my  boldness 
Might  have  brought  about  is  fearful, 
When  in  kindness  she  was  tearful 
But  rejected  me  in  coldness, 
For  I've  heard  of  her  conversion  to  the  cause 

of  Christian  Science, 
The  denial  of  all  evil, 
And  she's  heard  of  my  alliance 
With  the  forces  of  the  devil. 
It  was  just  at  half  past  seven 
That  I  made  my  tender  bid, — - 

16 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

How  we  both  are  thanking  heaven 
That  it  stopped  just  where  it  did ! 


But  I  came  from  out  my  hiding, 

And  I  got  a  crowd  together, 

And  at  Marliave's  we  soon  were  flocking,  birds 
of  a  fine  feather. 

Madame  was  there  presiding, 

With  her  ear-rings  and  gray  gown, 

And   that   oneness    of   her   stomach,    hips    and 
little  twinkling  frown. 

She  would  go  abroad  each  summer,  so  they  said, 

And  would  tour  from  town  to  town, 

As  a  lady  of  the  fashion,  in  yellow  or  in  brown, 

And  then  come  back  in  winter  to  her  slightly 
greasy  gown, 

Her  gray  presiding  gown, 

Greet  the  comers,  pour  the  cordials,  make  cor 
rections  in  your  French.  .  .  . 
But  the  last  time  that  I  went  there,  and  was 
better  served  and  fed, 

Though  I  really  knew  it  wasn't,  yet  the  place 
seemed  running  down; 

For  I  still  would  turn  my  head — 

But  she's  dead, 

17 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

Madame  is  dead! — 

And  there's  some  one  else  instead, 

Where  I  saw  but  vibrant  visions  of  the  ear 
rings  and  the  gown 

With  the  chuckle  of  her  French 

And  the  twinkle  of  her  frown. 

O,  I  tell  you  it's  a  wrench — 

She  has  gone  abroad  forever 

To  be  lady  of  the  fashion  in  a  far  too  foreign 
town, — 

But,  bless  her  heart,  I'll  never 

Forget  the  old  gray  gown ! — 

How  she  greeted  us  that  night 
With  her  separate  and  bright 
Salutation ! 

How  she  watched  the  semination 
Of  the  jolly  oats  of  folly 

That  were  watered  with  the  liquors  of  delight, — 
That  were  grown  that  very  night 
In  the  jars 
Of  Cambridge  cars! 

And  when  we  walked  through  Harvard  Square, 
It  seemed  the  oats  were  scattered  there; 
And  all  along  the  Yard  they  sprang, 
A  cause  of  titubation 

18 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

As  they  intervened  like  bars, — 

While  the  dormitories  danced  around  and  sang, 

And  the  elms  went  up  like  rockets  to  the  stars. 


Then,  when  I  should  have  gone  to  bed, 
I  felt  a  glory  in  my  head 
And  a  pencil  in  my  hand  and  said, 
6  I'll  write  the  greatest  poem  that  ever  was,'- 
And  since  I'd  heard  that  the  letter  V 
Was  a  god  of  Poe's  idolatry, 
I'd  call  my  arrogation 

'IN    VINO    VERITAS'  : 

'  From  a  vineyard  in  old  France, 
Virgin  as  a  dewy  violet, 
Veiled  in  vernal  vines  of  trance, 
Forth  she  fared  with  feet  inviolate 
Down  an  undiscovered  rivulet 
Of  vireos  and  jonquils, 
Forth  she  bared  to  violent  glance 
Violet  veins  in  silver  ankles, 
Vestal  feet  that  made  advance, 
Ventured  vivid  in  a  dance 
To  a  viol's  reverberance, — 
That  were  fervid  as  a  salliance 
In  a  lonely  vale  of  France, 

19 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

Dale  of  dalliance 

And  chance, 

That  were  vibrant  as  love's  valiance 

By  an  undiscovered  rivulet 

Of  vireos  and  jonquils: 

O  that  radiance  of  dance! 

O  that  daze  of  complaisance! 

O  that  vision  of  obeisance, 

In  that  valley  of  old  France! ' 

When  I  awakened  in  my  bed, 
I  felt  a  windmill  in  my  head, 
Going  round; 

Hopeful  I  seized  the  verse  of  violet  dew 
From  fevered  realms, 
To  help  me  through — 
But  O,  alas,  could  any  poem  be  thinner! 
Hopeless,  I  sank,  like  some  one  underground 
Who  wakes  to  suffocation  from  the  dead. 
But  all  the  day,  you  shed, 
O  Harvard  Elms, 

A  soft  benignant  lecture  on  my  head; — 
And  so  at  last  I  carefully  ate  dinner. 


The  clock  stands  solid  in  the  noon-day  sky 
Just  as  it  used  to  on  Memorial  Tower; 

20 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

And  I  remember  Table  32  crowded  with  talk, 

though  the  pitch  got  not  so  high 
At  noon,  as  at  dinner's  dinning  hour; 
And  quickly  comes  another  memory, 
And  rigid  floats, 

Of  a  certain  portrait's  dead  Bostonian  smile, 
Above  the  aisle  of  many  coats. 

Walking  around  the  Building  once,  to  see 
If  the  roofs  upon  the  other  side 
Still  steam  with  cookery, 
I  pass  John  Harvard  sitting  in  the  sun, 
Cloisters  behind  him,  and  the  streets  ahead! 

O  let  them  paint  you  red, 
Yet  long  shall  you  abide — 
Not  only  in  the  symbol  but  in  very  truth — 
A  white  unchanging  sentinel  before   the   days 

to  be! 
I  greet  you,  Johnnie  Harvard ! —  And  the  voices 

of  the  dead 
Wake  to  acclaim  you,  grave  and  gracious  youth! 


Let  slight  Memorial 
Who  will,  and  criticise  its  style; 
Still  shall  it  rise 

21 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

A  venerating  pile; 

And  still  in  dedication  shall  it  hold  that  sense 

inside 
Of  the  presence  of  the  glory  of  Harvard  men 

who  died, 
Of  their  going-forth  for  fear  their  country  fall. 

Above  its  tablet-bordered  wall 
Still  are  they  waiting,  tall 
Unseen  and  ardent,  in  the  dimmer  lights ; 
Still  shall  they  gather  here  immortal 
In  the  nights; 

Talking  of  Douglas,  politics,  alarms; 
Of  Lincoln,  the  election ;  of  the  call 
To  arms! — 
Of  the  bullet's  dance; 
Of  Sherman,  Grant  and  Sheridan; 
Of  the  glimmer  of  a  classmate's    face    in  the 

opposing  van, 

Lest  in  the  blinding  sharp  command 
To  charge ! — of  the  swarms 
Of  other  faces,  dropping  one  by  one, 
Of  the  fighting  never  done ; 
Of  the  way  a  gun  lies  in  the  hand 
To  kill  a  man ; 

Of  the  field  of  hell  that,  rising,  cries 
Against  the  skies; 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

And  then  with  bated  breath, 

Of   a   great   land   reunited,    and   a   new-begun 

advance, 

A  common  stand; — 

And  so  of  Harvard  College,  and  the  Hall 
That  is  their  own  Memorial. 

Young  Death  is  ever  in  the  band, — 
And  it  almost  seems  that  these  who  know  Him 

love  Him, 

That  He  goes  from  side  to  side, 
Still  full  of  life's  illusions  and  the  soft  surmise, 
His  touch  on  every  shoulder, 
And  sees  with  far-off  wonder  in  His  eyes 
The  flying  of  the  tattered  flags  above  Him, — 
That  His  pride  is  nearest, 
And  the  closeness  of  His  breath  is  dearest 
To  them  all.— 

O  the  deep,  enduring  eyes 
Of  Death! 

The  dark  and  wistful  eyes  that  grow  no  older, 
Of  the  only  Youth  of  all  that  never  dies ! 

Closer  than  ivy,  cling  my  memories 
To  all  these  Buildings,  and  to  all  they  mean. 

23 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

Even  the  Chapel  has  her  mute  appeal, — 
And  Sever  yonder,  where  the  classes  met, 
And  where  I  took  examinations,  that  I  can't 

forget, 

To  prove  my  fitness.  .  .  .  O  the  frantic  book 
Filled  with  wide  pencillings  and  wily  art, 
Ambiguous  responses  on  the  part 
Of   wisdom   to    seem    knowledge!  .  .  .  and    the 

lazy  blue  and  green 
Peeping  at  window-panes! 
And  the  swift,  miraculous  gains 
Of  the  minute-hand — 
Those  last  few  ticks  that  I  could  hardly  stand ! 

But  I  got  through! — 

Through  entrance — and  in  half  a  flash  through 
exit  too ! 


Here's  the  entry  and  the  stair 
Where  a  western  Poet  climbed, 
With  Apollo-nesian  hair, 
To  the  Heaven 
(Up  in  Thayer) 
Where  his  note-books  thickly  rhymed. — 

24 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

Sometimes  they'd  laugh  at  those  of   us  who 

dared  set  store 

By  our  own  venturings,  would  bid  us  see  instead 
That  the  lump  by  now  sufficiently  was  rising 

with  the  leaven ! 
In  Homer,  Shakespeare,  Dante,  it  had  all  been 

said  before. — 

Perhaps  they  laughed  at  Dante  in  his  youth, 
Told  him  that  truth 
Had  unappealably  been  said 
In  the  great  masterpieces  of  the  dead: — 
Perhaps  he  listened  and  but  bowed  his  head 
In  acquiescent  honour,  while  his  heart 
Held  natal  tidings, — that  a  new  life  is  the  part 
Of  every  man  that's  born, 
A  new  life  never  lived  before, 
And  a  new  expectant  art; 
It  is  the  variations  of  the  morn 
That  are  forever,  more  and  more, 
The  single  dawning  of  the  single  truth. 

So  answers  Dante  to  the  heart  of  youth ! 

O  hail  to  all  those  happy  rows  of  cloth  and 

leather  comeliness, 
The  sober  books  to  heal  and  bless, 

25 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

To  fill  a  golden  loneliness 

With  echoes  of  the  starry  tune, — 

The  madder  books  to  tease  and  to  excite, 

To  fill  the  crannies  of  the  night 

With  ravens,  and  with  eyes  of  love,  and  with  light 

O'  the  moon ! 


Coming  once  more  upon  the  Yard,  another 
gratitude  I  feel. 

They  now  have  running-water  in  the  rooms 

And  radiators,  and  the  grates  are  used  for 
wood; 

It's  nothing  now  to  be  both  warm  and  clean. 

But  it  was  good 

To  wash  as  Harvard  men 

Had  had  to  do  in  earlier  years, — to  kneel 

And  poke  the  coals  until  they  grew 

Red  as  the  blood 

That  keeps  a  body  warm,  or  as  a  sunset  seen 

On  frozen  days;  to  sit  in  the  dark  and  watch 
the  rays  again 

Temper  the  outer  nipping  glooms ! 

I'm  glad  that  now  they've  heat  and  running- 
water  in  the  rooms. 

I'm  glad  they  hadn't  then. 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

And   there    was    something   else   we    had    at 

first, 

Until  a  skulking  brood, 
Foul-handed  as  a  breaker  into  tombs, 
Scuttled  with  dynamite 
The  poor  old  Pump.     Night  after  night, 
As  it  filled  cool  pitchers  for  the  simpler  thirst, 
We'd  hear  the  handle's  friendly  guttural  sound; — 
But  the  ground 
Is  now  sealed  over  where  it  stood. 

Hear  how  I  clang  the  letter-box, 
Where  Billy  the  Postman  came! — 
A  little  hard  of  hearing  he; 
But  he'd  make  it  up  when  he'd  cheerily  see 
*  Were  there  any  letters  for  Stoughton  3  ?  ' — 
And  when  a  hand  with  a  flourishing  B 
Would  click  through  the  slot  and  fall  on  the 

floor, 
I'd  bless  him   for   bringing   love's  message  to 

me! 
O   I   took   her  to  games,  gave  her  many  a 

tea — 
But   I   don't   even   know   when   the   wedding's 

to  be; 
She  writes  me  no  more. 

27 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

Here    at    this    corner,    Dan   the    Watchman 

caught  my  arm 
One  night  and  led  me  home  from  harm. 

He  had  a  pale  face,  sharp  as  a  vice, 
Looked  like  a  white  owl  out  for  mice : 
But  he  grew  at  last  uncannily  pale, 
And  once  I  remember  hearing  him  say, 
Refreshed  with  a  nip  of  ginger  ale, — 
'No,  sir,  it  doesn't  really  pay, 
You  can't  get  the  proper  sleep  by  day; 
I  don't  much  care  for  it  anyway.' 

But  to  have  that  white  face  fail — 
It  seemed  like  something  lost  from  the  night, 
A  watchful  moon  of  human  light. 

And  John  the  Orangeman  is  gone  upon  a  ra 
diant  route, 

And  drives  a  donkey  with  white  wings, 
And  carries  unforbidden  fruit 
And  little  harps  and  things, 
For  angels  who  are  thronging  mute 
To  hear  him  how  he  sings ! 

He  had  one  ineradicable  sin, 
His  grin — 
But  Peter  had  to  let  him  take  it  in! 

28 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

I  do  believe  there's  Mrs.  Row! 
She  was  a  Goody  good  to  know ! 
Her  puckered  face  is  just  the  same, 
And,  hands  in  air,  she  cries  my  name 
As  instantly  as  when  I  came 
Back  from  the  long  vacation. 
This  is  the  sort  of  thing  she  says : 
*  Are   you    getting    bald  ? '     (when   I   raise    my 

hat) 

'But  what  can  you  do  with  brains  like  that? 
It's  too  much  application!' 

On  a  corner-rack  in  college  days 
I'd  had  a  pate  that  was  wholly  bald, 
With  which  I'd  scared  her  till  she'd  called 
On  the  Saints  for  preservation ! 
And  now  I  couldn't  help  thinking  of  that 
And  whether  the  skull  was  worn  so  flat 
By  too  much  application. 
I  put  the  point  to  Mrs.  Row, 
She  scratched  her  head,  and  said,  'Well,  no, — 
I  guess  it's  recreation ! ' — 

I  remember  she  borrowed  one  at  a  time 
My  Scott,  George  Eliot,  Hood  and  Poe; 
She  liked  both  prose  and  rhyme. 
And  she  read  them  through 

29 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

And  quoted  them  too, 

But  it  always  made  her  a  trifle  blue 

That  she  couldn't  be  sure 

Of  my  taste  being  true, 

For  I  hadn't  of  all  of  the  bards  she  knew — 

Tom  Moore, 

The  best  of  them  all! 

O  much  goes  by  in  a  year 
For  her  now! — she  must  be  sixty-two  or  so; 
But  God  will  give  her  her  due,  I  know ! 

As  she  stood  with  a  smile  and  a  tear, 
' Thanks   for   the   welcome,'    I   said,    'and   the 

cheer ! — 

It  made  me  feel  that  I  still  was  here. 
I'd  like  to  stay;   but  I've  got  to  go.' 
'So  have  we  all!'  said  Mrs.  Roe, 
'But  I'll  wait  in  the  door  for  you.' 


Back  through  the  Yard  by  Wadsworth,  where 

the  preachers  still  are  kept, 
(Where   Washington   and   Emerson   and   other 

great  have  slept! — ) 
Back  to  the  Avenue 
I  go,  finding  it  through 

30 


AN     ODE    TO    HARVARD 

An  iron  Fence  with  posts  and  gates  of  brick, 

Too  formal  for  that  trick 

Of  loitering,  as  we  used  to  do,  by  simple  wooden 

bars, 
And  talking  to  the  tune  of  cars. — 

Old  Yard,  good-bye  again ! — With  your  friendly 

trees  of  knowledge, 
You  were  fully  half,  yes  more  than  that,  the 

better  half  of  college ! 
O  think  of  the  luckless  wights 
Whom  all  this  didn't  please, 
Who'd  rather  have  electric  lights 
Than  memories  like  these — 
Than  luxuries  like  these! 


Often  we'd  walk  in  town, 
Thereby  less  idly  to  be  missing  classes; 
And   often   in   or   out   we'd   wait   on   Harvard 

Bridge  to  see 

A  gull  that  caught  the  sunlight  overhead; 
Or  a  crew  that  sped 
Symmetrical;     or    a    single    shell    slide    under, 

narrow 
As  an  arrow, — 

31 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

And  watch  the  rower,  his  white  flesh  turning 

brown, 

Bending  his  back,  his  arm,  his  knee, 
Spending  his  brawn,  his  muscle  and  his  marrow 
Close  with  his  heart  to  ply 
The  quiet  swiftness  of  his  revelry, 
Sending  his  oar  as  with  a  wing  to  fly; 
Later  we'd  watch  the  western  sky, 
With  poppies  hung  from  head  to  feet, 
Go  feasting  to  his  many-tapered  bed, 
Where  restless  he  would  lie 
On  the  scattered  golden  sheet, 
And  then  at  last,  deep 
In  a  great  ecstasy, 
Would  fall  asleep, 
Closing  in  tranquil  clouds  of  night,  like  a  petal 

in  the  grasses; 
Or,  later  still,  we'd  see 
That  bayonet-row  of  lights, 
March  by  the  River  Charles,  patrol  by  many 

a  home 

The  huddling  heights 
Of  Boston  town, 
And  lead  where,   like  the   crystal   vision   of  a 

camp,  looked  down 
The  ancestral  Dome. 

32 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

Or  else  we'd  take  those  other  walks 
Along  the  outer  circle  by  the  river, 
Past    Soldiers'  Field,    inhaling   for    our    health 

the  marshy  gases.  .  .  . 
Remember  with  me,  Comrade,  how  those  close, 

congenial  talks 
Would  patter  from  the  moment  to  forever! 


Over  that  crude  see-sawing  bridge  of  yesterday, 
After  the  morning's  rain, 
I  took   alone,  from   half -past  four   to  six  last 

night  again, 
The  old-time  way, 

The  ridge  of  path  that  sloped  from  miry  stubble, 
Between    the    looping    river,    full     of     steely, 

blurred  reflections, 
And  an  inchoate  landscape-plan 
Made  of  roads  and  tracks  and  spaces. 

Sharp  in  shadow  stood  the  trees  against  a  sky 
Where,  colossally  ascending, 
Came  a  sign  of  cloudy  trouble 
From  the  furnace  of  creation  and,  with  indus 
tries  of  man 

From  their  chimneys  tall  as  churches,  transcen 
dent  ally  was  blending 

33 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

Everything  of  great  and  little  in  a  multitudinous 

gray 
Overhead. 

There  to  the  left  was  life,  where  the  young 
men  ply  their  graces, 

Running,  jumping,  throwing  hammers, — where 
the  body  is  at  play 

And  its  destiny  is  amorous  and  young 

As  the  life-blood  in  their  faces. 
Across  the  river  lie 

The  resting-places 

Of  the  dead; 

And  there,  as  though  the  night  were  their  es 
pecial  hour, 

None  others  using  it  so  well  as  they, 

I  heard  the   bell,  that  rings  at  dusk  beside  the 
balconied  tower, 

Send  gently  with  its  iron  tongue 

All  those  that  wake  away. 

Across  the  river  then  I  cried  aloud 
In  a  great  wonderment, 

As  men  have  cried  in  anguish  without  cease, — 
*O  where  are  you  today, 
You  vanished  faces  ? ' 

34 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

And  while  the  twilight  wind's  caprice 

But  echoed  what  I  said, 

But  questioned  from  the  future,  asking  me, — 

More  than  before  the  shroud  that  hung 

From  tree  to  tree, 

Half  with  an  air  of  shelter  and  of  peace, 

Was  infinitely  still. 

Yet  I  believe  that  heaven  is  on  that  hill; 
That  each  who  blindly  loved  the  single  soul 
Shall  thence  illustriously  love  the  whole; 
And  with  the  leaves  that  fall  and  fly 
And  with  the  river  lifting  by 
Into  the  overwhelming  sky, 
That  these  are  lifted,  these  who  die, 
To  the  remotest  corners  of  their  destiny, — 
Infinitesimal  in  light  to  lie 
Farthest  and  nearest  in  infinity; 
That  into  breath  of  the  mysterious  Will 
The  worlds  are  welding  in  that  little  hill, — 
Where  all  shall  be  the  mother  and  the  son, 
The  daughter  and  the  father  and  the  One. 

Below  the  walk,  was  caught  in  muddy  pools 

a  last  and  sudden  radiance  from  the  sky; 
Beyond  me  went  the  outspread  land  dissolving 
in  the  distant  view, 

35 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

Save  for  the  lights  that  half -unseen 

Were  twinkling  through  pale  purple  mist,  like 

webs  of  dew; 
Behind    me    was    old     Cambridge,    low    and 

steepled ; 

And  there  and  eastward  was  the  region  peopled, 
Green,  yellow,  white,  and  violet,  on  the  gray. 
Across  the  river  were  the  lights  but  few, 
As    though    Mount    Auburn    with    its    candles 

lay, 

Before  eternity. 

Around  a  bank  of  night  that  came  between 
I   heard   a   muffled   voice, — then   nearer,   terse 

commands ; 

And  I  watched  emerge  an  eight-oar  crew 
From  the  darkness  that  was  falling, 
Like  visionary  oarsmen   (but  for  the   coxswain 

calling,) 
And  enter  it  again  with  ghostly  hands. 

Turning,  I  saw  the  Stadium  dimly  stand,  as 

though  it  half  withdrew 
Into  its  other  centuries,   as  though  it  held  its 

galleried  wall  to  intercept, 
Its  arching  silences  to  screen, 

36 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

A  pageantry  and  great  review 

Of  memories  with  which  it  stirred. 

Perhaps  a  thousand  years  from  now 
Somebody,  near  a  Stadium, 
Shall  see  the  padded  phantoms  come 
And  feel  himself  in  dreamy  thrall 
Of  ancient  phrensies  of  foot-ball. 

Had  I  drawn  nearer,  I  had  heard 
A  breath  of  wonder  through  a  Grecian  throng 
At  feet  that  flew, 

At  bodies  that  were  exquisite  and  strong, 
A  cry  of  rapture  at  the  crown  of  green, 
The  earth's  own  halo  on  her  holy  few — 
Who  stood  with  limbs  as  shining  as  the  sea 
And  hearts  that  were  the  wings  of  victory; 
Or  I  had  heard  the  scrape  of    weapons    glad 
iators  drew, 

The  cry  of  one  that  fell, 
The  step  of  one  that  slew, 
Or  seen  the  faithful,  terrible  farewell 
Of  some  believer  in  the  Nazarene. 

The  wind  was  down  and  hardly  blew; — 
The  evening  whispered  on  my  cheek, 
The  river  trickled  on  its  pebbly  edge; 

37 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

And  in  the  sedge 

I  heard  the  peep  of  a  deluded  bird. 

By  fences  then  I  clambered  back, 

And  went  by  an  inner,  shorter  track; 

Where,  under  a  lamp  that  cut  the  black, 

Came  a  runner,  out  of  darkness  like  the  fellows 

at  the  oars, 
With  a  dusky  flash  of  sweater  and  white  legs, — 

a  fading  streak 
Of  body  in  the  odour  of  out-doors. — 

When  homeward   by  the   bridge  I   took  my 

way, 

I  watched  along  the  watery  strip  of  park, 
Each    separate    light    stand    spearing     in    the 

dark, — 
As  lights  of  thought  strike  into  yesterday. 


And  now  I  turn  and  pass  once  more 
That  road  to  Soldiers'  Field, 
Where  on  great  days  would  pour, 
As  thick  as  lava  to  the  Gates, 
A  mighty  yield 
Of  college-mates, 
Of  friends,  of  relatives,  of  bright-eyed  Fates, 

38 


AN     ODE    TO    HARVARD 

The  Cambridge  boy, 

And  hoi  polloi, 

And  the  juvenescent  graduates. 

It  was  then  a  wooden  horse-shoe,  where  now 

the  Stadium  stands 
With  its  air  of  classic  lands; 
But  when  occasion  congregates 
The  many  into  one, 
It's  the  same  great  sea  of  a  thousand  coloured 

shadows  in  the  sun. 
And  the  heroes!     O  the  heroes! 
How  we'd  greet  them  as  they  trotted  in, 
Hail  them  with  voices,  banners,  hands, 
Drowning  the  brazen  blare  of  the  bands! — 
And  then  the  silence,  to  begin 
And  change  the  score  from  zeroes ! — 
And  O  the  coach,  and  referee, 
And  ready  row  of  candidates ! 
And  O  the  game  that  hesitates, — 
Agglomerates, — 
Disintegrates ! 

And  the  cryptic,  quick  commands! 
And  the  man  on  the  line  who  regulates ! 
And  the  man  in  the  air  who  tabulates! 
And  the  craning,  crowded  stands! — 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

The  multitude  that  gravitates, 

And,  inarticulate,  intonates 

When  he  makes  a  gain  and  lands  !  — 

And  the  girl  at  your  side  who  palpitates 

But  never  understands!  — 

To  have  it  go  against  you,  is  but  harder  to 

employ 

The  spur  of  glee, 
The  cheering  and  the  singing  in  the  wild  antiph- 


The  heavier  to  send  your  voice  into  that  roaring 

burst 
That  thrills  you  even  more  today  than  when 

you  heard  it  first. 
The  megaphone  annunciates, 
And  the  players,  one  by  one, 
Are  named,  and  then  the  answer  booms  like  a 

saluting  gun! 

Or  else  if  the  score  resuscitates, 
Bobs  like  a  saving  buoy, 
The  crimson  surges  tidal,  and   the  people  rock 

with  joy! 

And  then,  with  a  minute  more  to  play, 
To  give  the  crowning  touch  to  the  day, 
He  places  the  ball  and  calculates,  — 
It  lifts  and  never  deviates, 

40 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

And  the  fellows,  like  inebriates, 
Dance  and  hug  and  run, 
And  the  girl  beside  you  demonstrates 
That  at  last  she  understands, — 
While  all  the  sky  tumultuates, 
And  heaven  and  earth  shake  hands! 

One  memorable  year, 
When  we  won  a  game  from  Yale 
With  a  score  that  you  could  hear 
Around  the  world, 
Saw  a  scene  on  Boylston  Street — 
It  was  like  a  stretching  sail 
That  no  hundred  years'  defeat 
Could  have  furled, — 
Like  a  torrent  that  was  winding  back  to  break 

on  Harvard  Square, 
That  was  curling,  swirling,  whirling,  with  great 

reaches  in  the  air ! 
Wrhy,  the  crowd  had  been  in  coming 
But  a  stream  that  softly  purled, 
By  this  rushing,  hurling,  humming, 
High  incontinent  return ! 
Not  so  steep  will  be  the  churn 
Even  closest  to  the  stern 
Of  the  comet  bearing  Chaos  for  a  tail ! 

41 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

Round  the  Yard  with  pace  triumphal  then  we 

filed, 
And  beyond,  to  Jarvis  Field,  where  soon  was 

piled 

Thick  fuel  for  a  fire; 
And  the  red  tongues,  crowding  higher, 
Seemed  a  sort  of  crimson  crier 
To  the  people  in  the  stars 
That  we'd  broken  down  the  bars 
And  were  out  upon  the  highways,  going  wild! 

So  we  marched  with  tingling  feet, 
Rousing  Cambridge  to  the  beat 
Of  the  figures  of  the  score  as  to  a  drumming. 
And    the    President  and  Dean  went  through 

their  paces, 

Made  us  speeches  from  their  porches 
With  our  torches 
In  their  faces. 
The  President  spoke  nicely,  but  before  he  was 

half  through 
Was    devoting   his    attention    altogether   to   the 

crew. 

Yet  our  cheers  were  no  less  true  to  him, 
For  a  lot  of  things  were  due  to  him 
And  it  didn't  seem  enough  to  do  to  dedicate  the 

crew  to  him! — 

42 


AN    ODE    TO     HARVARD 

Wherever  a  window  opened  wide 

And  heads  looked  out,  as  soon  as  spied 

They  were  told  the  news  with  another  cheer, 

For  it  was  news  they  ought  to  hear ! 
At  one,  a  woman  and  a  child 

Leaned  in  the  light  of  a  crimson-shaded  lamp 
that  stood  behind, 

And  brought  to  my  excited  mind 

A  favouring  Madonna  who  had  held  her  Babe 
and  smiled 

On  Crusaders  from  some  banner  that  was  crim 
son  in  the  wind! 

But  soon  she  broke  the  picture,  and  a  moment 
went  inside, 

And,  returning,  held  her  baby  towards  us  with 
a  crown  of  red — 

She'd  put  the  paper  lamp-shade  on  his  happy 
little  head! 


All  that  was  long  ago. — 
It  was  this  morning  that  I  came 
Down  Brattle  Street,  and  felt  it  newly  strange, 
How  people  change  and  change 
Towards  that  darkest  change  of  all, 
That  hides  them  from  our  sight, 

43 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

And  how  Nature,  while  she  changes,  yet  returns 

the  same. 
That  fine  old  man  of  Cambridge — I  never  knew 

his  name — 

With  an  English  squire's  air  of  beef  and  ale, 
With  bearded  cheek  as  hardy  brown 
As  an  orchard  in  the  fall, 

And  with  gaitered  stride  that  marched  the  town, 
And  miles  of  country  too, — 
I  saw  him  come  this  morning  into  view 
As  though  he  were  a  stranger  to  me  quite; 
He's  not  so  tall ; — 
How  white 

His  hair  is !  and  his  step  how  frail ! 
His  face  how  pale ! 
Was  it  some  sickness  ? — or  the  silent  stroke  by 

which  the  hold  is  lost  ? — 
See  how  about  us  in  the  chill  of  twilight, 
Stricken  by  the  silent  frost, 
The  leaves  come  down! 


Before  long  Fll  be  old  and  gray, — 
Returning  to  Commencement-day 
With  stories  of  the  happy  way 
We  used  to  get  together, 

44 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

Until  that  final  June  of  mine.  .  .  . 

I  think  I  heard  the  ladies  say 

The  day  was  very  fine, — 

But  I  wasn't  caring  then  about  the  weather! 

I  was  thinking  of  a  fellow  who  had  had  the  sense 

to  go 
Out  of  Cambridge  to  a  place — it  doesn't  matter, 

I  don't  know — 
But  to  skip  the  celebration 
And  the  jaunty  fuss  and  feather, 
And  to  contemplate  in  quiet 
That  feted  fatal  day, 
That  melancholy  day! 
It  would  never  be  the  same  again  when  once 

he'd  gone  away. 
But  I  stayed  with  all  the  riot, 
In  funereal  cap  and  gown, 
At  the  spreads  where  cake  was  broken 
And  congratulations  spoken; 
And  I  danced  Memorial  dances; 
And  I  guided  merry  glances 
Through  the  Yard  that  streamed  with  lanterns 

and  with  laughing  laureation; 
The  Yard  that,  though  a  wilderness  of  music 

and  delight, 
Was  mighty  little  nicer  than  it  always  is  at  night. — 

45 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

Then  when  the  chatterers  had  gone, 
Leaving  us  few  at  last  alone, 
We  drank  the  good  old  College  down 
To  the  farthest  end  of  time  in  all  her  glory! 
And  if  we  drank  her  deeper  down — 
It's  still  the  single  story: 
The  beginning  of  tomorrow  means  the  ending 

of  today 
Was  what  we  all  knew  well  enough — and  didn't 

want  to  say! 


The  morrow, 

When  I  peered  above  the  shutter, 
Lay  in  flimsy  desolation 
Like  a  last  unhapppy  flutter 
Of  that  festival  of  sorrow: 
Pallid  lanterns,  trodden  grass, 
And  spent  confetti, 
Made  the  heyday  of  the  class 
Look  pretty  petty. 

Round  we  met  in  twos  and  threes, 
With  our  mournful  pleasantries; 
O,  it  seemed  annihilation  to  give  up  your  rooms 
for  good, 

46 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

Not  knowing  who  would  have  them  next, — 
The  packing,   and  the  finding,   and  the  vivid 

sad  recalling, 

The  burning  of  an  excellent  but  evil-gotten  text, 
The  forsaking  of  the  old  tin   box  that  held  the 

midnight  food, — 
And  the  sum  of  all  of  these : 
The  discovery,  in  midst  of  overhauling, 
That  in  college,  as  in  other  things,  who  enters 

must  make  way, — 
To  every  man  his   college-time,  to  every  dog 

his  day! 
And    the    ardours    of    ambition    shone    and 

struggled  quite  in  vain 
On  that  day  of  dark  perdition,  in  that  dismal 

inner  rain. 


If  I  haven't  mentioned  learning, 
Here's  to  it  in  a  line ! 
I'm  afraid  before  returning 
I'd  forgotten  most  of  mine. 
But  if  from  all  those  studious  days 
I  hadn't  kept  a  thing, 
What  I  got  in  other  ways — 
Nothing  else  could  bring. 

47 


AN     ODE    TO    HARVARD 

And  so  I  leave  you,  Harvard  College,  with  a 

grateful  sigh 

For  what  I  shall  have  had  before  I  die; 
For  the  Yard  and  trees  and  friends  and  rhymes 
And  laughs  and  Mrs.  Row, 
And  for  all  the  good  old  times 
That  had  to  go. 

O,  I'll  never,  drunk  or  sober, 
No,  I'll  never,  late  or  soon, 
Find  again  that  first  October, 
Lose  again  that  final  June ! — 

If  only  it  could  all  be  new-begun, 
Never  to  end! 
It's  a  different  kind  of  fun 
When  you  watch  it  in  a  cousin  or  a  friend! 

So  I  see  what  I  must  do ! — 
I  must  get  a  son  to  send ! 
Then  in  my  blood  again  I'll  truly  know, 
As  first  I  knew  two  hundred  years  ago, 
At  last,  old  Harvard  College, — it  is  you ! 

Yet  is  that  altogether  true  ? 
Must  we,  then,  wait  so  long  ? — 

As  wandering  from  the  Yard  I  take  my  thought, 

48 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

Casting  about  me  as  I  ought, 
I  find  that  I  was  wrong! 

This  is  not  all  that  Harvard  College  brought, 
This  throng 

Of  memories  that  now  come  back 
To  emphasize  a  present  lack, 
To  mourn  themselves  experienced  and  done, 
Unless  renewed  in  a  prospective  son. 
For,  tell  me,  shall  Fair  Harvard  ever  cease 
The  hymn,  the  praise,  the  song, 
To  bring  a  sense  of  majesty,  a  thrill  of  peace  ? 
Or  at  a  game  with  Yale 
Shall  the  ardour  ever  fail 
Of  the  passion  for  the  Crimson,  for  the  Crimson 

to  prevail  ? 

Or  whe.n  an  undergraduate  is  kind, 
And  tries  to  bring  his  mind 

To  the  names  of  certain  Freshmen  whom  I  knew, 
Shall  I  fail  to  feel  his  courtesy,  and  know  it  to 

be  true, 
And  fear  it  to  be  twice  as  kind  as  what  I  used 

to  do 
For  older  men  ? 

Or  shall  I  miss  that  promise  of  the  prize 
When  I  see  her  sons  come  forth  again 
The  future  in  their  eyes  ? 

49 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

Harvard  is  indivisible  and  strong: 
She  has  her  cities  and  her  states, 
Her  countries, 
Her  philosophies; 

The  smallest  vision  for  me  that  relates 
To   life,   gives   Harvard — well,  at   any   rate,    a 
corner. — 

I,  who  came  back  to  Cambridge  as  a  mourner, 
Take  with  me  now  a  many-raying  sun 
To  show  me  what  I've  won, 
Shining  as  bright  on  Harvard  in  New  York  or 

Zuyder  Zee 

As  on  the  roof  of  Stoughton  Hall,  or  on  the  Tree 
Of  trophies,  that  in  those  other  years 
Was  shaken  with  the  scramble  and  the  cheers. — 

Can  I  forget  that  look  from  eye  to  eye, 
That  wave  of  hand, 

When  I  was  travelling  alone  in  Switzerland, 
And,  edging  down  the  Rigi  in  a  car,  saw  climb 
ing  by 

Upon  the  other  track 
A  man  I'd  known  but  slightly 
In  the  class! — 
Saw  him  brightly, 
Felt  him  pass 

50 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

Into  the  dark  of  travel  that  encloses; 

Yet  knew  that  Harvard  was  in  both  our  hearts ; — 

We  peeped  at  stars  and  Harvard  was  the  glass! 

In  him  I  might  have  found, 
I  knew  it  in  that  glance, 
What  I  had  nearer  known  in  other  men, 
And  in  his  countenance 
Under  a  foreign  sky, 
Brown  with  the  same  old  sun, — 
I  saw  what  I  had  seen  on  Cambridge  streets. 

You  may  credit  me  with  judgment  fairly  sound, 
When  my  second  thought  supposes 
That  it  matters  little  whom  a  fellow  meets, 
In  the  time,  the  college-time,  when  the  heart 

of  living  beats, 
Not  its  completest, 
Never  all  its  sweetest, 
But  its  first  sure  pulses  of  the  man  to  be. 
Then  every  man  is  good  to  know, 
For  God  his  Maker  made  him  so! — 
More  than  the  child,  the  boy,  the  youth, 
Happily  less  than  the  loser  of  truth, 
It's  the  man  who  talks  and  laughs  and  smokes, 
Who  sets  his  cap  at  life  and  eats, 
Who  scoffs  and  hopes,  and  prays  and  jokes, 

51 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

And  masters  his  defeats; 

While  the  Unmaker  still  is  overthrown, 

And  the  unbroken  heart  of  living,  still  prophetic 

beats 

A  monotone 
Triumphant  over  death. 

In  every  man  who  draws  that  breath, 
There  is  a  heavenly  vision  of  his  destiny, — 
The  everlasting  lamp  has  not  yet  flickered  out, 
But  burns  the  brighter  in  the  winds  of  doubt; 
And  so  in  every  man  may  friendship  find 
The  something  that  is  finer  than  the  mind, 
The  feeling,  for  the  sake  of  his  eternal  soul, 
That   God  and  men  shall  help  to  make  him 
whole. 

O  blessed  are  the  early  ways  to  share 
The  mystery  of  being  not  alone. 


One   man  there   was   whose  presence  I  had 

always  thought  to  keep, 
Who  yet  had  seemed  awhile  ago 
Estranged    and    different,    as    though    nearness 

being  passed 

The  friendship  couldn't  last; 
And  so  our  light  talk  emptily  was  cast 

52 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

Upon  the  shallows;  until  suddenly 

Questions  arose  of  moment  and  of  near  concern; 

And  then  a  richer  cargo  of  his  gifts  came  forth 

to  me 

In  glad  return 
Than  ever  had  forsaken  me. 
And  deep, — 

O  deeper  than  till  then  we'd  dreamed  to  know, 
We  felt  the  reach  of  friendship's  mystery, 
The  ultimate  newness  of  the  past! 

It's  not  the  strong  men  who  had  gone  before  us, 
Not  Lowell,  Emerson,  or  who  you  will, 
Who  visit  us  so  closely  and  restore  us 
To  the  early  fine  intentions; — 
It's  the  men  we  knew  in  crudeness  and  in  im 
mature  dimensions, — 
Whom  we  lose  and  then  we  find  again 
And  feel  the  old  ties  bind  again 
With  intimate  reminder; 
Whom,  seeing  less  and  knowing  longer, 
We  discover  still, — 
The  weaker  growing  stronger, 
The  stronger  growing  kinder! 

And  it's  not  those  fellows  only  who  had  the 
luck  to  go 

53 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

To  Harvard  for  their  schooling  whom  Harvard 

helps  us  know; — 
It's  men  of  other  colleges,  it's  men  of  none  at 

all, 
It's  men  who  never  even  heard  the  name  of 

Stoughton  Hall, 
Where  first  I  felt  that  wisdom  which  today  I 

try  to  use, 
Which  I  often  lose 
But  look  for  with  a  will; 

For  though  I  still  forget,  yet  I  remember  still 
That  when  a  man  inclines  to  set  below  him 
Some  neighbour,  or  conceive  dislike,   he  need 

but  seek 

In  silence  for  the  right,  at  last,  to  speak: 
'What  can  I  do  but  like  him, — for  I  know  him!' 


Gay  at  times,  but  no  less  sober, 
O  that  manful  young  October! 
O  that  muslin  mischief  June, 
With  her  sad  momentous  moon! — 
They  were  dear  deceiving  lovers 
So  this  latter  day  discovers. 

Yet  in  spite  of  all  his  boon, 
Should  he  jog,  sedate  and  sober, 

54 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

Toward  a  humdrum  honeymoon  ? — 
There  he  goes,  the  young  October! 
There  she  waits,  the  gentle  June! 

To  the  devil  with  the  doubt! 
Let  Harvard  be  the  Sign! — 
When  I  stop  to  think  it  out, 
What  I  am  and  must  be  with  you,  what  I  might 

have  been  without, — 
Why,  the  memories  I  took  for  you 
Give  way  to  resurrection  in  all  the  world  about! 
And  I  only  need  to  look  for  you, 
And  use  my  right  divine, — 

To  find  you,  Harvard  College,  and  to  have  you 
always  mine! 


For  Christ  and  for  His  Church  they  founded 
you; 

And  through  the  years  has  simple  Truth  suf 
ficed, — 

No  separating  doctrine  has  confounded  you 

Before  an  unintelligible  Christ; 

For  Christ  and  for  His  Church  you  open  still 

The  lofty  aisles  of  worship  and  good- will. — 


55 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

O  Harvard  College,  in  the  spirit's  fight 
America  has  need  of  you ! — O  let  your  might 
Become  her  captain  and  her  strong  delight! 

O  mean  to  all  those  others  whom  you'll  see 
The  thousand  things  in  one  you  mean  to  me! 

O  lift  forever  on  the  shield  of  truth, 
Before  the  armies  of  mortality, 
The  sounding  challenge  of  the  spear  of  youth! 


56 


POEMS 


TO    GEORGE   MEREDITH 

O  Master,  from  the  all  you  learned, 
Above  the  cloudy  mountain-brinks, 
And  at  the  edge  where  sunsets  burned, 
And  amongst  men — deep  have  you  turned 
The  smiling  eyelids  of  the  Sphinx! 

Invisible  upon  her  paw  sits  death, — 
Confronted  by  her  visage  finely  fraught 
With  all  the  dear  solemnity  of  breath, 
And  smiling  eyelids  of  mysterious  thought. 

If  men  shall  mock  at  mimicry  in  stone, 
Which  is  not  beast  nor  woman,  whole  nor  half, 
Let  them  but  look  what  structure  is  their  own 
Of  unimagined  flesh  and  vanished  bone — - 
And  listen  at  her  lips  and  hear  her  laugh! 

O  Meredith,  this  creature  you  have  left, 
With  ample  flanks,  and  poetry  on  her  brow, 
This  wonder  you  have  builded  strong  and  deft, 
Shall  sit  for  centuries  as  calm  as  now! 

She  shall  behold  the  mortal  multitude 
Passing  in  joy,  in  vanity,  in  grief, 

59 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

The  vast  mirage  amazingly  renewed, 
The  fury  of  the  everlasting  feud, 
The  green  returning  of  the  desert  leaf. 

With  death  among  the  sands  upon  her  paw 
And  desert  round  her  she  shall  sit  content, 
And  shall  behold,  shall  contemplate  in  awe, 
Man  and  his  covering  of  firmament. 

Silently,  safely,  in  good  time, 
Great  master  of  the  minds  of  men, 
You  builded  to  a  wider  clime 
Than  Egypt,  and  have  left,  sublime, 
A  Sphinx  to  tease  the  world  again. 


60 


HILL-SONGS 


On  we  climb,  keeping  time 
To  hidden  goat-bells'  nibbling  chime, 
Feet  in  the  dew  of  ferns  we  climb, 
Souls  in  a  sort  of  winding  rhyme, 
Up  the  path  that  turns  and  turns 
Toward  the  top  where  morning  burns, 

II 

Though  a  flower  of  the  dust 

Droop  and  die, 
Who'll  be  moody  with  mistrust  ? 

You?  ...  I? 

HI 

Tears,  tears, 

Are  by  with  the  years, 

Are  dry  on  the  cheeks  of  the  dead.  .  .  , 

It's  better  to  laugh 

At  the  whole  or  the  half 

Of  the  luck  (or  lack)  that's  ahead; 

Or  to  sleep  it  away — 

And  not  have  to  pay 

For  the  bed! 

61 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

IV 

Now  in  the  wood, 

Birds  of  the  wood 

Sing  and  are  merry, 

Tears  are  no  good, 

Fears  are  no  good, — 

Thought  is  the  stone  of  the  cherry. 


The  days  number  seven, 

Then  seven, — 

I  tell  you,  that's  heaven  a  plenty ! 
Or  should  you  want  more, 
Divide  them  by  four 
And  twenty, — 
Times  sixty, — times  seven, 
For  infinite  heaven ! 

VI 

Here's  a  tree 
Making  shade 
Just  for  me 
And  a  maid. 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 

VII 

Who  could  begin 
Thinking  of  sin  ? 
Sin  only  comes  with  repentance! 
If  ever  we  sin, 
Let's  never  begin, 

Signing  our  sentence! 

VIII 

Look  at  me ! — Tell  me  now, 

What  do  you  think?  .  .  . 
Could  anyone  anywhere 

Happier  drink 
Of  the  springs  of  the  world 

In  the  cups  of  the  air  ? — 

Anyway,  anyway 

What  do  we  care  ? 

IX 

Was  that  a  kiss  ? 

Were  those  your  eyes  ? 

Or  was  it  bliss 

In  paradise  ? 

I  felt  on  your  lips  the  perfect  rhyme! 

I  saw  in  your  eyes  the  end  of  time ! 


63 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

X 

Yonder, 

To  trespass, 

Lie  orchards  and  farms, — 
But  I'm  fonder 

Of  trespassing 
Here  in  your  arms. 

XI 

The  bell 

Of  noon.  .  .  . 

And  soon 

There's  less  of  light.  .  .  . 

And  then  the  bell 

Of  night.  .  .  . 

Or  was  it  noon  ?  .  .  . 

XII 

It  must  be  midnight, 

Sweeter  noon 

Of  lesser  light, — 
For  there's  a  moon ! 

XIII 

Answer  me,  ancestress, 
What  do  you  see, 

64 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 

With  eyes  that  from  Eden 

Are  looking  at  me  ? — 

That  there's  not  any  knowledge,  nor  ser 
pent,  nor  sword? — 

But  only  the  Lord  ? 

Only  the  Lord! 

XIV 

See!    there's  a  dew, 
And  night  is  black; 
And  stars  are  few, 

Tracing  a  track 

To  lead  us  back! 

XV 

Down  we  climb,  keeping  time 
To  watery  pebbles'  hidden  chime, 
Feet  in  the  dews  of  sleeping  ferns, 
Souls  in  a  love  that,  waking,  burns 
Doubt  and  every  fear  away, 
Trembling  with  a  dawn  that  yearns 
Into  day. 

XVI 

Good -night, 

And  sleep  you  well ! — 

65 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

While  on  the  pasture-height 
A  bell, 

Another,  and  another,  tell 
The  end  of  night, 
Hang  a  shawl  to  hide  the  beam 
Of  the  sun ! 

And,  though  apart,  afar, 
We'll  dream  as  one, — 
You  of  a  high  hill  shall  dream, 
I  of  a  star! 

XVII 

It's  morning — hear  the  village  bell  ? 
Good-night!    good-night  !    and    sleep   you 

well!... 
I  of  a  star.  .  .  . 


66 


THE  POOL 

O  it  is  pleasant,  on  the  naked  brink, 
Idly  awhile  of  happy  things  to  think! 

A  man  like  me  set  out  that  curve  of  trees, 
A  man  like  me  cut  out  these  tiles  of  stone, 
And  out  of  other  stones  and  trees  were  grown 
Under  his  hand  those  towers  in  the  breeze. 

\ 

And  only  over  yonder  sunny  wall 
There  is  a  heart  would  answer  should  I  call. 

And  when  I've  done  with  thinking  and  would 

fain 

Be  safe  and  free,  I  need  but  bend,  but  dive, 
And  with  a  rush  my  body  is  alive, 
And  there  is  no  one  but  myself  again. 

My  image  upside-down  is  at  my  feet, 
So  is  life  doubly  mine  and  doubly  sweet. 


67 


4 SO  KIND  YOU  ARE' 

You  have  an  eye  more  warmly  brown 
Than  autumn  days  away  from  town, 
But  will  not  let  me  speak  my  mind, 
So  kind  you  are  and  so  unkind. 

You  have  a  cheek  as  white  and  red 

As  apple-blossoms  overhead, 

Just  where  the  sunshine  strikes  me  blind, 

So  kind  you  are  and  so  unkind. 

You  have  a  voice  with  all  the  moods 
Of  twilights  and  of  solitudes, 
But  light  to  leave  me  as  the  wind, 
So  kind  you  are  and  so  unkind. 

You  have,  however  far  I  be, 
A  trick  of  coming  near  to  me, — 
Though  out  of  sight,  not  out  of  mind, 
So  kind  you  are  and  so  unkind. 

The  way  would  seem  not  half  so  soon 
To  reach  your  heart  as  reach  the  moon, 
Yet  it's  a  way  I'll  surely  find — 
So  kind  you  are  and  so  unkind. 

68 


HEY-DAY 

Come  and  go  a-berrying, 

Would  you  wiser  be! 
Come  and  learn  that  everything 

Younger  is  than  we — 

We  who  almost  dared  to  think 

In  our  wearying 
There  were  no  more  springs  to  drink, 

No  more  pails  to  swing! 

We  were  dusty  with  our  books. 

Come  and  let  us  go 
Out  among  the  lyric  brooks, 

Where  the  verses  grow, 

Where  the  world  is  one  delight 

Made  of  many  a  song 
Lasting  till  the  nod  of  night, 

Lovely  all  day  long, 

Till  the  smallest  glimmering  nook 

Holds  the  moon  in  glory; 
And  the  heavens  are  the  book 

And  the  stars  the  story! 

69 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

There  the  peaceful  earth  is  sweet, 

Either  way  it  lies — 
Under  unacquainted  feet 

Or  on  tired  eyes. 


70 


THE  ROBIN 

Except  within  poetic  pale 

I  have  not  found  a  nightingale, 
Nor  hearkened  in  a  dusky  vale 

To  song  and  silence  blending; 
No  stock-dove  have  I  ever  heard, 
Nor  listened  to  a  cuckoo-bird, 

Nor  seen  a  lark  ascending. 
But  I  have  felt  a  pulse-beat  start 

Because  a  robin,  spending 
The  utmost  of  his  simple  art 
Some  of  his  pleasure  to  impart 

While  twilight  came  descending, 
Has  found  an  answer  in  my  heart, 

A  sudden  comprehending. 


71 


GRENSTONE  RIVER 

Things  you  heard  that  blessed  be 
You  shall  tell  to  men  like  me: 

What  you  heard  my  lover  say 
In  the  golden  yesterday, 
Leaving  me  a  childish  heart, 
Glad  to  revel,  quick  to  start. 

And  though  she  awhile  is  gone 
And  I  come  to-day  alone, 
'Tis  the  self-same  whisper  slips 
Through  your  ripple  from  her  lips. 

Long  shall  she  and  I  be  dead, 
While  you  whisper  what  she  said; 
You,  when  I  no  word  can  give  her, 
Shall  forever  whisper,  river: 

Things  you  heard  that  blessed  be, 
Telling  them  to  men  like  me. 


CLOVER 

'Come  and  sing  a  song,  lover!' 

'Very  well;    I'll  sing  of  clover; 
Sweet,  sweet,  honey-sweet, 
Hardy  in  the  open  heat, 
Strayed  from  meadow-full  to  street, 
Sweet,  sweet,  honey-sweet! 
Bees  bumble  as  they  meet, 
Cattle  curl  a  tongue  and  eat, 
Children  play  with  trampling  feet, 
Lovers  come  and  hearts  beat, 
Sweet,  sweet,  honey-sweet. 
There's  the  song  I  sing  of  clover.' 

'  Nothing  of  yourself,  lover  ? ' 


73 


MERCURY 

Celia,  you  spoke  and  said, — 

'  See  where  it  sinks!  see  how  it's  turning  red! ' 

And  when  you  ended,  a  far  whip-poor-will, 

With  first  one  faint  and  unaccustomed  note, 

(A  sober-souled  comedian  at  prayer), 

And  all  the  pines,  from  hill  to  hill 

In  reverential  pilgrimage,  breathed  to  the  air, 

O,  not  in  words ! — in  worlds  instead ! — 

'  See  where  it  sinks!  see  how  it's  turning  red! ' 

Celia,  you  spoke  and  said, — 

'  Not  Mercury,  nor  any  star 

Could  be  so  red; 

It  must  have  been  instead 

A  window  on  the  hill!9 — 

So  slow  of  faith  you  are, 

And  doubting  still, 

Yet  heard  the  pines, 

When  Mercury  was  red, 

The  whip-poor-will, 

And  all  the  peaceful  voices  of  the  dead, 

And  me  beside  you  in  the  evening  air — 

Saying  the  single  prayer ! 


74 


THE  HYPOCRITE 

When  Celia  said  that  for  her  sake 

I  must  not  take  of  wine, 
My  habit  or  her  heart  must  break, 

I  straightway  drew  the  line — 
Yet  not  so  much  for  Celia's  sake 

As  secretly  for  mine. 

By  grace  of  her  I'm  full  of  wit, 
Or  think  I  am — what  matters  it  ? 

I  gave  it  up  because  I  won 

A  wine  thereby  so  rare 
That  out  of  all  the  vineyards  none 

Has  yielded  to  compare! — 
I  left  it  off  because  I  won 

The  sparkling  of  her  hair! 

By  grace  of  her  I  feel  my  worth 
Immortal  on  a  mortal  earth. 

And  Celia  meantime  loves  to  laud 

My  exodus  from  vice, 
And  does  not  guess  me  by  the  fraud 

75 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

Intoxicated  thrice, 
Watches  in  fact  a  little  awed 
The  seeming  sacrifice. 

I  wonder  would  she  take  amiss 
Confession  of  my  wickedness  ? 


76 


'THE  LOVES  OF  EVERY  DAY' 

He  thinks  not  deep  who  hears  the  strain 

Of  gentle-hearted  Nicolette 
And  fears  that  nevermore  again 

To  such  a  tune  will  love  be  set 
Of  daisies  and  the  foot  that  let 

Them  look  but  shadows  on  the  way 
To  where  the  olden  lovers  met; — 

These  are  the  loves  of  every  day. 

The  heart  that  makes  of  binding  chain 

A  linked  song  for  Nicolette, 
The  heart  that  ventures  perilous  pain, 

That  needs  no  counsel,  heeds  no  threat, 
And  hearts  that  hear  and  answer  yet 

The  blessing  of  the  holy  ray 
Of  evening  from  her  minaret, — 

These  are  the  loves  of  every  day. 

Not  only  shall  the  story  gain 

For  Aucassin  and  Nicolette 
Woods  green  with  an  immortal  rain; 

But  long  as  human  eyes  go  wet 

77 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

For  lovers,  or  till  time  forget 

That  we  can  love  as  well  as  they 

In  triumph  over  mortal  fret, — 
These  are  the  loves  of  every  day. 


ENVOY 

Poet,  yours  is  a  vain  regret 

That  Aucassin  has  gone  his  way! 
We  have  him  still  with  Nicolette; — 

These  are  the  loves  of  every  day. 


78 


THE  PRETTY  LADIES 

Look  through  those  windows,  Dick, 
Where  there's  all  the  lights,  and  see 

The  pretty  ladies  dancing! 

That's  just  like  heaven  to  me ! — 

O  Dick,  I  do  love  music  so, 
It's  just  like  heaven  to  me! 

.  .  .  But  this  is  better,  Dick, 

I  like  this  better,  see! 
For  one  of  those  pretty  ladies 

Might  take  you  away  from  me.  .  .  . 
O,  if  one  of  those  pretty  ladies,  Dick, 

Should  take  you  away  from  me! 


79 


THE  CHAPLET 

When  I  came  home  at  evening 
With  flowers  in  my  hand, 

And  on  my  head  a  chaplet 
From  an  enchanted  land, 

Not  one  of  those  that  passed  me 
Appeared  to  understand. 

They  thought  that  like  the  others 

I  wore  a  hat,  and  went 
As  prosy  on  the  sidewalk 

As  one  collecting  rent — 
They  knew  not  who  had  kissed  me 

Nor  all  the  matter  meant. 


80 


THE  BEGGAR 

Dear  and  dead  brother  whom  I  mourn3 

A  beggar  on  the  street 
Whispered  to  me  with  face  forlorn 

And  wanted  food  to  eat. 

I  could  not  find  him  after  that, 

For  many  a  likely  crook 
Had  just  that  coat  and  just  that  hat 

But  none  of  them  that  look. 

If  he  was  living  whom  I  used 

So  ill,  I  cannot  tell, — 
Or  if  the  face  that  I  refused 

Was  yours  I  loved  so  well ! 


81 


THE    MARIONETTES 

A  boy  with  a  face  like  some  Greek  coin 

Leans  in  the  second  row, 
To  help  each  mimic  hero  join 

Against  the  Moslem  foe. 

The  gas  reflecting  in  his  eyes, 
That  swerve  not  left  nor  right, 

Burns,  every  time  a  pagan  dies, 
With  freshness  of  delight. 

These  are  but  dolls  of  brass  and  wood 

Whose  destinies  begun 
He  watches  till  the  end  is  good 

And  victory  is  won. 

Is  there  an  eye  of  endless  light 
For  what  we  do  and  dare? 

Or  are  we  playing  to  the  night 
With  nobody  to  care  ? 


MARCELLO  MACELLO 

I'm  in  the  hospital  and  he 

Lies  at  his  house  upstairs, 
For  that  is  where  he  had  to  be 

Or  mind  his  own  affairs. 

He  thought  that  he  could  catch  my  girl, 

Sporting  his  fancy  vest; 
But  she's  a  bird,  she  doesn't  care 

The  way  a  fellow's  dressed. 

I  tried  to  fight  him  fists  and  fair; 

His  knife  was  what  got  me; — 
But  there'll  be  singing  at  his  house 

And  he'll  not  hear  it,  see! 


J 

AN     ODE    TO    HARVARD 

AN   APRIL   IN    MADISON    SQUARE 

Between  Diana,  captive  on  her  tower, 
And  Vulcan,  in  his  chariot  of  stone, 
Young  Pan,  as  in  an  earlier,  happier  hour, 
Returns  with  ancient  antics  of  his  own; — 
Pauses  and  peers  to  find  his  curious  face 

Leer,  slide,  and  lift  with  shattering  laughs  of 

spray, 

From  dim  reflections  at  the  fountain's  edge; 
And   here   he  comes   and  leans  the   livelong 

day, 
Winding  an  alternately  tender  pace, 

As  when  he  tiptoed    peeping  through  the 
sedge. 

Bet  ween  while  he  is  jealous  of  the  sod 

That  opens  yonder  to  the  cleaving  spade, 
Till  he  has  rubbed  his  hoof  on  every  clod, 

Before  the  yellow  pansy-bloom  is  laid, — 
Catching  the  wheel,  making  the  barrow  stick, 

Dodging  behind  it,  and  in  golden  ground 
Poking  an  angle-worm  to  deep  retreat; 

Yet  merging  every  antic,  every  sound, 
And  every  ecstasy  at  every  trick — 

Into  the  rhythm  of  the  children's  feet. 

84 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 

This  is  the  Pan  who  laughed  because  he  loved, 

Who  stood  astride  with  gaily  puffing  cheek 
And  blew  the  clinging  green,  so  that  it  moved 

Its  misty  wings,  warm  summer-time  to  seek; 
Often  he  leaps  upon  a  bench  to  rest .  .  . 

I  feel  him,  while  I  wait  here  in  the  Square, 
Glow  by  my  side  as  never  sun  could  glow, 

Cross  his  gay  legs  of  tufty,  curly  hair, 
And  hold  his  pipes  close,  close  against  his  breast, 
Adding  another  to  the  tunes  they  know. 

When  cautiously  I  turn,  lest  he  be  wild 

And  dart  away,  I  find,  instead  of  Pan, 
A  wider-eyed  and  yet  a  Pan-like  child, 

Who  when  he  saw  me  round  a  tree-trunk  ran 
Because  I  looked,  but  ventures  back  and  bends 

A  twinkling  face,  dares  me  to  understand 
The  presence  of  a  mate  whom  once  I  knew, 

Revealed  at  every  motion  of  his  hand, — 
For  lightly  by  his  little  finger-ends, 

You're  leading  him,  O  Pan,  to  go  like  you! 

This  is  a  noon  I  never  shall  forget ; — 
It  may  not  be  like  this  another  day, 

You  may  not  come  again,  young  Pan !     And  yet 
Have  I  not  felt  you  snuggle  close  and  say 

85 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

That  when  you  knelt  to  Him  of  Nazareth, 
Crept  through  the  hay  to  spy  the  infant  face 
That  gathered  all  the  pagan  stars  in  one, 
Your  old  star,  sanctified  to  greater  grace, 
Was  newly  yours,  by  the  soft -crowing  breath 
With  which  He  crowned  your  innocence  of 
fun? 

And  so  I  know  by  every  child  of  glee — 

That  little  girl  who  holds  against  her  breast 
The  burning  of  Vesuvius  over-sea 

And  San  Francisco  burning  in  the  west, 
And  reads  the  bitter  tidings  upside-down, 
This  little  boy  who  teases  her  to  play 

And  finds  her  fast  as  he  when  once  they 

start — 
That  Pan,  young  Pan,  is  no  more  dead  than 

they! 
For  I  have  seen  him  dancing  into  town, 

And  heard  his  laughter  piping  in  his  heart! 


86 


'NOW,  O   MY   MOTHER' 

Unheeding  I  had  often  heard 

How,  when  you  were  but  three, 

You  had  a  doll  whose  face  was  blurred, 

A  broken  doll  was  she, 

And  yet  the  cracks  and  seams  and  glue 

Meaning  the  deeper  need  of  you, 

You  took  her  to  your  mother-breast 

And  held  her  close  and  loved  her  best. 

Now,  O  my  Mother,  when  I  come 

From  what  I  thought  disgrace, 

With  all  the  slow  unhappy  sum 

Of  failure  in  my  face, — 

When  there  is  nothing  left  to  do 

But  just  to  tell  it  all  to  you — 

O,  how  I'll  show  the  world  of  men ! — 

You  took  me  to  your  heart  again! 


87 


THE    INTERVAL 

The  least  we  can   do  is   to  live,  a  short   or   a 

longer  time, 
And  give  what  we  have  to  give,  in  the  valiant 

pantomime, 
Of  muscle,  or  love,  or  rhyme. 

The  most  we  can  do  is  to  die, — contented,  dis 
content; 
With  a  few  to  wonder  why,  and  whither  our 

spirit  went, 
And  what  the  interval  meant! 

Who  more,  since  the  ages  began,  hath  known 

of  the  secret  of  breath 
Than  that  life  is  the  question  of  man,  and  that 

time  continueth 
The  empty  answer, — death! 

But  O  the  mad  heart,  it  is  beating!  and  beauty 

seems  lastingly  bright, 
As  if  it  could  never  go  fleeting  afar  on  the  feet 

of  delight, 
And  be  lost  in  the  thicket  of  night ! 


88 


THE    DESERTER 

High  is  the  fife  and  low  the  drum, 

And  people  lean  to  see, 
And  hats  are  off  where  heroes  come, 

And  none  is  off  to  me. 

And  women's  eyes  are  wet  with  pride 

If  luck  or  woe  it  be — 
If  he  have  lived  or  if  he  died, 

And  none  are  wet  for  me. 

O  home  was  cool  and  faint  and  far, 
And  I  had  marched  with  death, 

When  fever  brought,  as  from  a  star, 
At  last  a  voice,  a  breath ! 

My  sweetheart's  living  breath,  it  came 

In  one  great  rift  of  air ! — 
Till  I  stole  out  and  had  no  shame, 

Hung  back  and  did  not  care. 

And  I  was  sick  to  say  good-bye, 

And  fell  along  the  shore; 
For  O  I  did  not  dare  to  die, 

Not  once  to  see  her  more! 

89 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

On  ship  as  in  a  dream  I  lay, 

Uncertain  what  I'd  done; 
And  then  remembrance  broke  one  day 

And  set  not  with  the  sun. 

One  hope,  one  right,  was  all  I  had 

Still  high  to  hold  my  head — 
It  was  not  fear  had  made  me  mad 

But  love! — when  I  had  fled  .  .  . 

And  though  perhaps  the  girl  would  grieve, 

She'd  give  me  grace  to  live, 
For  she  would  listen  and  believe, 

Would  cherish  and  forgive. 

Out  of  my  soul  the  lover's  song, 

To  tell  her  I  had  come, 
Rose  with  the  sun  and  sang  along 

The  stretching  roofs  of  home. 

Swift  to  the  house  upon  that  street 

My  dreams  had  seen  at  sea 
I  blundered  on  elated  feet, 

She  was  so  dear  to  me ! 

The  people  answered  she  was  gone, — 
O  yes,  they  knew  me  well — 

90 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 

And  '  Where  ?  '  I  asked  them  every  one, 
And  none  of  them  could  tell. 

By  now  I've  had  it  proven  plain 

She  wished  me  not  to  know; 
But  here  I  am  come  back  again, — 

I  know  not  where  to  go ! 

For  if  I  lived  or  if  I  died 

She  waited  not  to  see; 
For  women's  hearts  are  faint  with  pride 

And  none  with  shame  for  me. 

And  bugles  blow  this  day  when  I 

Am  clean  forgot  by  more 
Than  those  that  had  the  luck  to  die 

In  the  uniform  they  wore. 

There's  drum  and  fife,  and  eyes  are  damp, 
And  they're  marching  knee  and  knee; 

A  comrade  looks  upon  a  tramp — 
But  knows  him  not  for  me. 

Look  close,  old  friend,  O  closer  yet 

Into  this  bearded  face! 
Couldn't  you  catch,  and  then  forget, 

Some  half -remembered  trace? 

91 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

Think  of  the  sweethearts  in  the  crowd 

For  fellows  in  the  line, — 
Fellows  who  kept  the  faith  they  vowed 

As  ill  as  I  kept  mine! 

O  there  is  neither  death  nor  life 

Nor  anything  for  me — 
Yet  here's  my  hat  to  the  same  old  fife's 

*  My  country,  'tis  of  thee'! 


BACCHANALIAN 

Fling   back   your    heads,    women,    heavy    with 

grape  clusters ! 

Toss  your  mad  torches !     Illumine  the  lustres 
— Like  sunny-shot  flecks  on  a  black,  black  sea — 
Afloat  in  her  eyes,  bewildering  me. 

The  Earth  is  a  jewel;  he  hangs  'mid  the 
hair, 

He  gleams  'mid  the  teeth  of  my  Paradise  there, 

Who  tilts  back  a  face  that  was  born  to  be 
guile; 

And  his  nights  are  her  tresses,  his  days  are  her 
smile. 

And  her  bosom  is  Time.     And  the  Future  her 

face. 
And  her  fingers  are  Fate.     And   her   being    is 

Space. 
And  her  breath  is  All-Sound;    wherefore  I  am 

All-Hearing. 
To  lose  her  were  Death;    it  is  nearing! 

Bacchus,  thou  callest;   thy  wine  putteth  wings 
On  their  purple-wet  feet;    and  it  sings, 

93 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

As  it  bleeds  from  their  overflung  jars, 
A  song  to  her  eyes,  which  have  drunk  of  the 
stars. 

Thou  hast  captured  my  feet  unawares, 
Till  lustful  I  struggle  to  burst  from  thy  snares, 
And  seize  her,  the  Body  and  Soul  of  thy  band — 
But  the  flight  of  her  garment  is  hot  in  my  hand. 

Let  thy  joy,  Bacchus,  leap  like  the  joy  of  a  sea: — 
Those  eyes  are  thy  mistress,  returned  to  thee. 
Lift  up  the  wild  bowl !    She  is  lost !    I  am  dead ! 
Space  and  Time,  Fate  and  Future,  are  fled. 


94 


TWO   SONGS 

A  nightingale  sang  of  the  birth  of  a  rose, 
Of  her  richness  of  breath, 
Of  her  nearness  to  death, 
And  her  close. 

And  the  rose,  feeling  heaven  a  desert  above, 
Sent  a  thrill  to  the  earth 
Of  her  death  and  her  birth 
And  her  love. 


95 


AN     ODE     TO     HARVARD 

A  BALLAD   OF  MARRIAGE 

Gather  up  blossoms! 
Let  them  in  handfuls 

Lighten  like  torchlight  her  hair  and  her  blushes ! 
Clash  the  glad  cymbals, 
Put  strength  to  the  lute! 
On  the  floor  be  there  roses,  not  rushes ! — 
Some  of  them  white  for  her  maidenhood ! — some, 

for  her  love  and  its  flushes, 

Red  as  a  sun  arisen  in  beauty  through  passion 
ate  hushes 
Of  morning!     White  be  the  roses,  white  as  her 

lovely  desire! 

Lift  up  the  lute  and  the  lyre! 
Red  let  the  roses  be,  red  as  his  heart  is  that 

trembles, 

That  leaps  and  leaps  with  the  cymbals, 
Red  as  its  fire! 

Is  other  joy  complete  ? — 
Or  any  joy  so  sweet 
Through  all  the  wide  earth 
As  in  love-thoughts  that  beat, 
Advance,  retreat, 
Mad  with  their  birth! 

96 


AND     OTHER    POEMS 

This  is  their  hour! 
Their  time!    their  power! 
Bow  every  heart  to  them! 
Bow  every  flower! 
Bow  every  melody! 
Bow  every  pleasure! 
Earth  is  their  drinking-cup, 
Heaven  their  measure! 

Though  white  was  her  veil  against  her  lips 

That  parted  as  in  play, 
Yet  whiter  was  her  waiting  cheek 

Than  all  her  bride's  array; 

Bright  though  the  feast,  the  light  in  her  eyes 

That  opened  as  in  play 
Was  whiter  than  ever  any  light 

That  blessed  a  marriage-day. 

And  though  the  wedding-music  flew 

As  many  a  merry  bird 
Might  soaring  sing  it,  yet  the  tread 

Of  dreams  was  all  she  heard, 

Of  dead  dreams  that  in  pallid  file 
Came  forward  one  by  one 

97 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

To  kneel  in  silent  courtesy, 
As  living  dreams  had  done. 

From  the  woven  woods  a  point-eared  boy 

With  leap  and  leafy  scent 
Fled  by  as  fast  as  he  before 

Had  followed  where  she  went. 

And  one  who  had  wooed  but  yesterweek, 

Lord  of  a  moonlit  land, 
While  he  mistily  kissed  her  maiden  cheek, 

Let  lie  her  wedded  hand. 

Then  passed  a  knight  of  starry  mien 
Who  had  vowed  when  she  should  need 

To  come  and  clasp  her  from  alarm 
Close  on  a  flying  steed. 

And  he  to  whom  she  had  dreamed  she  would 
yield 

In  a  swoon  of  sweet  surprise, 
Bent  tragic  down  with  curved  lips 

That  trembled  on  her  eyes. 

And  last,  but  not  so  shadowy 
As  he  before  had  come, 

98 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 

Stood  a  shape  that  thrice  had  visited 
With  veiled  mouth  and  dumb. 

And  he  whispered  now,  at  both  her  ears 

Amid  her  circling  hair, 
How  her  lily-body  and  her  soul 

And  her  listless  lips  were  rare! 

And  she  heard  his  deathly  whispering, 

Though  soon  he  went  his  way, 
And  there  entered  at  her  lids  again 

The  light  of  a  marriage-day: 

The  sight  of  an  honest  knight,  aglow 

With  honest  knightly  pride, 
Who  in  love  with  his  cup,  his  wife  and   the 
world, 

Sat  singing  at  her  side, 
Who  shouted  and  hummed  and  laughed  along 

Till  the  echoes  never  died, 
And  sang  her  just  such  a  marriage-song 

As  should  be  sung  to  a  bride. 

This  is  their  hour ! 
Their  time!   their  power! 
Bow  every  heart  to  them! 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

Bow  every  flower! 
Bow  every  melody! 
Bow  every  pleasure! 
Earth  is  their  drinking-cup, 
Heaven  their  measure! 

Gather  up  blossoms! 
Hurl  them  in  handfuls 
To    hover   like   snow    on   her   hair    and    her 

blushes ! 

Strike  the  mad  cymbals, 
Put  stress  to  the  lute! 
On  the  floor  be  there  roses,  not  rushes ! — 
Some,  for   her  maidenhood,  white! — some,  for 

her  love  and  its  flushes, 

Red  as  the  sun  that  is  sunken,  mute,  amid  shad 
owy  hushes 
Of  evening!     Red  be  the  roses,  red  as  her  lover's 

desire ! 

Lift  up  the  lute  and  the  lyre! 
White  let  the  roses  be,  white  as  her  breast  is 

that  trembles, 

That  sinks  and  sobs  with  the  cymbals, 
White  as  its  fire! 


100 


THE  LANTERN 

Love  went  laughing  by  the  house 

With  a  lantern  in  his  hand  .  . 
From  a  round  of  gay  carouse 

Out  I  peered  to  see  him  pass, 
Caught  a  flicker  on  the  glass, 

And  I  asked  a  laughing  lass 
(One  I  thought  might  understand) 

Who  it  was  went  by  the  house 
With  a  lantern  in  his  hand. 

So  we  tumbled  out,  we  two, 

And  we  followed  far  and  steep, — 
Until  neither  of  us  knew, 

When  the  birds  awoke  from  sleep 
And  the  sky  was  turning  blue, 

If  it  merely  were  the  peep 
Of  a  star  across  the  land, 

Or  a  willow-wisp,  with  pass 
Of  his  wand  the  way  he  flew. 

But  he  waited  in  the  dew, 
Waited  laughing  for  us  two, 

While  I  helped  the  little  lass; 
And  we  followed  him  anew 

101 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

With  a  joyful  faint  halloo! 

Then  he  told  us  what  we  knew, 
(O  that  joyful  little  lass!) 

And  we  saw  his  eyes  grow  deep, 
And  we  knew  our  love  was  true. 

So  when  now  the  flashes  pass — 
How  our  two  hearts  understand 

Who  is  watching  by  the  house 
With  a  lantern  in  his  hand! 


102 


A   BALLAD    OF    LIFE 

Smiling  he  spoke  when  the  dead  would  ride 

To  the  roll  of  martial  drum, — 
6  For  soldiers  who  have  bled  and  died, 

The  end  is  nobly  come!9 

So  now  are  the  drums  declaring  him 

Advanced  among  the  dead, 
And  slow  are  the  axles  bearing  him 

With  shattered  arm  and  head. 

And  his  hand  that  has  held  a  woman's  face 

In  passion  or  in  grief, 
Shall  soon  in  less  and  less  of  space 

Be  withered  like  a  leaf. 

And  his  heart  that  with  hope  or  with  battle- 
cry 

Has  beat  like  a  bell  elate, 
Shall  soon  with  the  dung  of  cattle  lie, 

To  nourish  birds  that  mate. 

'  When  soldiers  fall  as  they  soldierly  fought, 
The  end  is  nobly  come,9 — 

103 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

Was  what  he  would  say  when  the  dead  were 

brought 
With  a  toll  of  martial  drum. 

Yet  even  the  common  staring  thief 

Who  yonder  droops  and  swings, 
He  also  shall  change  his  hand  to  a  leaf, 

His  heart  to  a  bird  that  sings ! 


104 


MARIA   SPIRIDONOVA 

.  .  .  "  To  suppress  agarian  disorders  due  to  famine,  the  Vice-Governor, 
M.  Luzhenovsky,  went  through  Tambov  and  began  to  shoot  the  peasants- 
wholesale  and  flog  them  in  the  most  atrocious  manner.  As  he  was 
returning  from  one  of  his  expeditions,  a  girl  named  Maria  Spiridonova 
shot  him.  She  tried  to  shoot  herself,  but  was  disarmed  by  a  blow  and 
fell  to  the  ground." — Prince  Kropotkin,  The  New  York  Times,  Septem 
ber  9,  1906. 

They  are  damning  you  for  murder, 

For  you  shot  a  murderer  dead; 

They  have  stripped  you  and  have  whipped  you 

With  their  leather  and  their  lead, 

Till  your  blinded  face  and  body 

Were  as  one  great  wound  that  bled. 

Mary  Martyr,  when  they  formed  you 
Haloes  out  of  whip  and  rod, 
When  they  bade  you  name  what  comrade 
Helped  you  make  a  man  a  clod — 
Who  was  with  you  in  your  courage, — 
Did  you  tell  them  it  was  God  ? 

Mary  Martyr,  though  they  bruised  you, 
Though  your  body's  blood  they  shed, 
Yet  your  body  was  His  vengeance; 
And,  arisen  from  the  dead, 

105 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

Close  to  God  your  soul  shall  trample 
This  new  serpent  on  the  head! 

For  you  knew,  in  spite  of  churches, 

He  shall  surely  come  again; 

And  you  broke  the  sixth  commandment 

That  was  only  one  of  ten, 

But  you  kept  the  great  commandment : 

4  Thou  shall  love  Ihy  fellow-men '  / 


106 


GAMBETTA   TO    HIS    MIGNONNE 

My  promise  and  your  sacrifice  to  prove, 

You    came    with    tenderness,    you    came    with 

strength ; 

You  were  my  battle-cry,  you  were  my  tent, 
My  hand,  my  helm,  my  whole  accoutrement; 
And  no  desire  now  tempts  me — till  at  length 
You  shall  have  been  my  uttermost  content 
In  death — save  that  I  may  not  lose  your  love ! 

How  I  declared  that  I  as  deep  should  prove 

Passion's  devotion,  patriotism's  will! — 

You  and  my  country  were  to  share  my  art, 

And  each  of  you  should  have  an  equal  part ! 

Say  is  that  dedication  equal  still, 

When  no  desire  can  enter  in  my  heart 

At  last,  save  that  I  may  not  lose  your  love  ? 

All  that  I  have  and  am,  but  kneels  to  prove 

Your  inspiration,  O  adored  soul! 

Of   your   own   strength   have   I   brought   back 

again, 

Out  of  the  restlessness  and  mortal  pain, 
The  tender  mystery  that  is  the  whole 
Of  life,  and  other  thoughts  are  all  as  vain 
As  dust! — save  that  I  may  not  lose  your  love! 

107 


SIN 

I  drew  to  thee,  but  more  withstood 
Lest  heart  to  heart  should  beat, 

For  Heaven  had  had  me  christened  good 
And  would  not  let  us  meet. 

And  so  I  held  from  thee  and  fled 

And  kept  my  body  pure 
That  long  shall  lie  and  moulder  dead, 

Letting  my  soul  endure. 

Yet  shall  that  soul,  so  utterly 

Thine  in  immortal  sin, 
Outside  of  Heaven  better  be 

With  thee,  than  lone  within. 


108 


THE  WITCHES 

Once  we  were  women  of  song  and  caresses 
Whose  days  were  the  threads  of  a  purple  de 
sign, 

Whose  gods  were  the  power  that  passion  con 
fesses 
To  moonlight  and  heart-beats,  to  music  and 

wine; 

The  pandering  moon  went  ahead  in  the  chase, 
And  music  impelled  us  with  flagellant  stresses; 
And  many  a  passionate,  wine-stricken  face 
Has  kissed  and  gone  mad  in  the  maze  of  our 
tresses ! 

Then  we  knew  us  accursed  — and  to  wailing  and 

kneeling 

We  fell  in  our  panic; — but  life  dried  away 
And  crevices  crept  among  wrinkles,  revealing 

The  ashes  that  altered  us  crisped  and  gray; 
Till  our  only  lust  left  is  for  darkness  and  flame, 
In  the  hushes  and  hisses  of  storm  to  go  steal 
ing* 

And,  full  of  abhorrent  and  hungering  shame, 
Amid  odours  of  death  to  be  leaping  and  reel 
ing! 

109 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

O  the  horrors  we  fling  to  the  night-wind  that 

chases ! 

The  flesh  we  desire  in  the  vapour  that  floats ! 
O  dizzy  we  are  with  the  smoke  in  our  faces, 
The  flame  in  our  eyes  and  the  fume  in  our 

throats ! — 
With  what  cunning  we  dig!  .  .  .  with  what  fury 

of  care 
We  uncover  the  bones  that  we  break  with 

embraces ! — 

And  fondlingly  loosen  the  greenish-gray  hair  .  .  . 
And  loop  it  on  branches  in  desolate  places! 


110 


THE  FRUITS  OF  THE  EARTH 

I 

I  was  my  merry  self  just  now; — 
But  on  the  instant  that  I  turned  my  head, 
The  ancestral  flesh  darted  alive  within  me, 
Like  a  wolf. 

It  was  strange  to  me  and  terrified  me, 

It  was  rank  of  times  and  places  unknown  to  me, 

And  yet  it  was  most  sweetly  urging  in  me, 

In  every  pulse  and  vein  of  me, 

Coaxing  like  the  plea  of  an  old  friend, 

That  I  turn  and  be  again  at  last 

The  ancient  savage  self! 

We  leaped  arm  in  arm! — 

We  became  one  being,  savage  and  exalted! 

We  set  fire  to  all  the  cities, 

We  overturned  the  mountains, 

And  even  while  we  stood  motionless  in  one  high 

spot 

We  ran  like  a  wind  round  the  world 
And  returned  in  effrontery  before  the  stars. 

Ill 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

We  were  full  of  all  the  fruits  of  the  earth, 

Almonds  and  apples,  pineapples  and  grapes, 

Of  all  the  fountains  both  of  milk  and  honey, 

Of  all  the  flaming  feathers  and  the  sharp  melo 
dious  beaks, 

Of  all  the  hoofs  and  shrill  neighings, 

Of  all  the  volcanoes, 

Of  the  stillness  of  the  moon  and  the  confusion 
of  great  clouds, 

Of  the  kissing  of  the  sun  on  the  shade, 

And  of  the  sea  on  the  shore, 

And  of  the  sword  in  the  body, 

And  of  the  dew  on  the  feet. 

II 

Exultant  there  stood  a  figure  on  the  edge  of  a 

cliff, 

Leaning  and  twining  its  fingers  against  the  sky, 
And  the  hair  was  as  a  water-fall  at  noon, 
The  body  as  a  pillar  of  spray, 
And    through   it   lay   the   curving  breast,    like 

white  rain-bows, 
And  the  ribs  of  curving  ivory  were  bound  as 

in  soft  silk, 

And  the  heart  was  beating  in  its  place; 
And  the  fingers  that  were  against  the  sky 

112 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 

Were  drawing  me  like  a  gleaming  net, 
And  the  mouth,  that  tiny  red  dawn, 
Was  calling  to  me, 

Like  the  sight  of  land,  and  like  the  sound  of 
sea! 

Straight  to  the  cliff, 

My  hand  an  arrow-point, 

My  foot  the  tip, 

Straight  to  the  toppling  edge, 

I  was  borne  on  the  wind, 

Caught  round  in  a  whirlwind, 

In  a  whirl  of  spice. 

And  on  the  edge, 

For  one  tall  crumbling  moment, 

We  stood  in  effrontery  before  the  stars. 

Ill 

Then  was  the  steepness,  where  we  fell,  like  a 

sword  on  the  lips, 
The  pang  of  destruction, 
And  the  base  was  an  army  of  spears. 

The  pebbles  of  the  shore  were  as  flies  in  my 

wounds, 
And  the  sea  threw  salt. 

113 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

The  rough  tongue  of  the  sun  was  an  abomina 
tion  in  my  wounds; 

And  I  beheld  the  body  that  had  stood  upon  the 
cliff 

Torn  and  sucked  outward  by  a  wave, 

The  head  bent  under,  and  the  open  breasts 

Gone  in  the  sea 

Like  evil  bloodshot  eyes, 

The  feet  like  weeds. 

IV 

But  in  the  end  came  the  cool  firmament, 

The  multitude  of  stars, 

And  I  stood  propitiatory  before  them, 

I  lifted  my  hand,  I  stoned  the  ancestral  wolf; 

And  the  witnesses  that  had  been  created  before 

me 

Looked  not  away; 

And  I  ran  like  a  voice  round  the  earth, 
And  returned  like   a  voice  from  the   invisible 

corners  of  the  earth, 
And  sang  with  the  stars, — 
Before  the  mountain  of  darkness, 
Before  the  foot  of  silence! 


114 


'AND   O  THE  WIND' 

'Twas  such  a  saucy  little  brook 
And  had  so  beckoning  a  look 

And  had  a  wink  so  sly, 
That  oft  I  follow'd  where  it  led, 

Caught  by  its  roguish  eye, 
Caught  by  the  dimpling  laugh  that  sped 
Ever  ahead,  ever  ahead, 

Amid  the  grasses  growing; — 
And  O  the  wind  was  blowing, 
And  O  the  wind  was  high! 

It  seemed  that  I  must  chase  and  chase 

Forever  at  a  charmed  pace 

Among  the  parting  grasses: 

Forever  taunted  by  a  sound 
Of  laughing-voiced  lasses 

Whom  never  any  mortal  found; 

While  all  around  and  all  around 

Green  grasses  should  be  growing, 
And  dreams  be  misty  blowing 
As  a  peril  when  it  passes. 


115 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

The  wind  is  fled  I  know  not  where, 

And  leaves  a  deadness  in  the  air 
And  rain  along  the  sky. 

Where  am  I  going  ? — why  should  I  run 
Upon  these  muddy  flats  that  lie 

In  squalor  toward  a  setting  sun  ? 

Can  this  same  pathway  have  begun 

Where  there  were  grasses  growing?- 
And  O  the  wind  was  blowing, 
And  O  the  wind  was  high! 


116 


ROVERS   ALL 

O  body  made  of  breezes 

From  fields  of  early  May, — 

The  bee  that  roves  and  seizes 
The  summer's  soul  away 

And  stores  it  where  he  pleases, 
Remembers  where  you  lay — • 
He  reeled  from  where  you  lay, 

And  roving  birds  and  breezes 
Went  dizzier  that  day. 

Though  I,  a  wanton  rover, 

Have  wandered  where  you  lay, 
Yet  now  when  May  is  over 

And  clover  now  is  hay, 
The  wanton  worm's  the  rover 

That  finds  your  lips  today, 

That  kisses  you  today, 
The  buccaneering  lover 

That  steals  your  heart  away! 

O  ecstasies!     O  eases! 

O  dizzy  night!    O  day! — 
The  worm  that  roves  and  seizes 

The  summer's  soul  away 

117 


AN    ODE    TO    HARVARD 

And  stores  it  where  he  pleases, 
Remembers  where  you  lay, 
Has  kissed  you  where  you  lay! — 

O  body  made  of  breezes, 
O  body  made  of  May! 


118 


' OVER  THE  HILLS'  .  .  . 

Over  the  hills  to  climb  and  flee, 

And  let  no  heart  be  braver! 
And  when  they  arise  like  waves  of  the  sea 
O  like  a  bird  of  the  sea  to  be, — 

Over  the  hills  forever! 

Over  the  hills  to  find  content, 

To  lose  the  gall  and  sorrow 
Of  letting  life  and  love  be  spent 
For  happiness  that  came  and  went, 
Or  may  not  come  to-morrow! 

Over  the  hills  hide  half -unknown 

High  haunts  of  starry  cover; 
O  to  steal  out  in  the  night,  alone 
With  one  close-clasp'd  whose  hair  is  blown, — 

And  be  the  perfect  lover! 

Over  the  hills  at  last  to  know 

The  soul  of  some  deep  river! — 
And  sweet  in  the  fields  to  rest  and  grow, 
And  swift  in  the  winds  to  rise  and  blow — 
Over  the  hills  forever! 


119 


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